


The Way Back

by rosalind25



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 92,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalind25/pseuds/rosalind25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to Season 3 in which Meg lives. Guy and Meg find sanctuary with the outlaws, but the path to belonging is never smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Elements from canon, but the story diverges significantly upon Vaisey's return.
> 
> My first ever fanfic, so reviews appreciated!
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Tiger Aspect and BBC, I'm just borrowing them.
> 
> Apologies for the comment moderation everyone, but due to a series of objectionable comments on my other fic I thought I'd better take the same precaution with this one.

"Alright Isabella, you win. I'll do anything you want. Kill me, if you must, but don't take her life."

Against his will, Allan's steps slowed. He didn't want to see this, was glad Robin had sent him and Little John to the armoury. But the desperation in Gisborne's voice dragged him to the balustrade.

"Come on," John urged, waving for him to follow.

Allan held up a hand - he wanted to hear.

"Proceed with the execution."

"She's just an innocent girl!"

John tugged at his arm.

"We need to go, now."

Allan shrugged him off. He lifted his bow, even drew an arrow.

"Shouldn't we do something?" he asked.

"What, and save Gisborne?" John was genuinely puzzled.

“Well, him and the girl.”

“No need.” John pointed. “Robin’ll take care of it. Come on.”

As John spoke Allan saw the executioner drop. Then Robin took a second, spectacular shot – one of those only he could make – to knock the falling axe from its trajectory. He watched Guy free the girl and descend the steps and was about to follow John when he saw a guard attack them. Then Guy was swinging the injured girl up into his arms and fleeing.

“John...they’re in trouble...”

“So will the rest of us be if we don’t get those weapons. We go, now!”

“OK big man,” he said, following John’s lead. 

                                          --------------------------------------------------------

“Hood! Get him,” shrieked Isabella.

All hell broke loose. Guy leapt to his feet, as did Meg; they freed each other’s wrists. Unable to repress a smile, Meg's eyes shone with relief and hope. Guy felt it too. But they weren’t out of danger, the chaos would give only moments’ cover. Guy leapt from the platform, and turned to help her down.

“Guy, look out. Guy, no!”

At her cry he spun, saw the lunging guard, and pushed Meg aside. A swift blow felled the man. Guy turned and saw Meg teetering down onto the steps, clutching her side.

“No,” he breathed, “no....”

Scooping her up, Guy stumbled towards the nearest gate. No one molested them, but it wouldn’t be long before they were pursued. Like every fugitive before, Guy headed for the concealment of Sherwood. Close to the town its paths were well-known to every guard in Nottingham; they would have to find somewhere well hidden to be safe. He half-ran and half-stumbled, Meg’s blood seeping across his arm. He tripped on a rock, and she whimpered softly. Guy shifted his grip for a better hold. They must stop. He needed to check the injury, and decide what to do. He’d lost track of time, but when they emerged from the trees into a dim glade and he saw the angle of the light on the water he reckoned the day to be fading.

“Let’s just rest here for a while,” he murmured to Meg.

Guy sank onto the piled leaves at the base of a tree. He settled her carefully in his lap, reclining her against the trunk.

“There we go.”

His hands grazed gently down her arms and he moved hers aside so that he could assess the wound. He'd deflected the blow, but the pike had grazed her side, leaving an ugly mess of fabric, flesh and blood all torn and mingled together. Guy ran his hands up and down her arms, reassuring himself as much as her. She was alive, but this was beyond his power to mend; he inflicted wounds, he didn’t heal them. Where to find help? No one would aid Guy of Gisborne. Any healer or physician would hand him straight back to Isabella. He thought of Locksley Manor. His steward, Thornton, would help. He was a good man, and they’d worked together comfortably enough. But even if Isabella hadn't installed a new lord there, once she had the situation in hand in the castle her first priority would be to dispatch guards to watch the manor. Which only left Hood. He'd intervened already to save Meg and would no doubt do so again. And just as quickly hand him over to Isabella. Should that stop him? Guy brushed the curls tenderly back from Meg’s face. He would risk that; much as it galled him to ask, he knew the outlaw would keep her safe. But with no idea where to find him, Guy didn’t have much time.

Meg whispered something, and his eyes flicked back to hers. Had he heard properly? He met her eyes, and knew that he had.

“Shhhh....” he hushed, stroking the hair from the side of her face. He shook his head, ever so slightly. He couldn’t do it. She was so much more than he deserved, and he so much less than she knew.

“Please.”

Meg’s breath caught as she struggled against the pain. In the end he couldn’t refuse. With a tender smile, he bent and touched his lips to hers, the barest brush of a kiss. Lifting his head, he gazed down. Even distressed by her wound, she managed to summon a smile.

“I always quite liked you, you know.”

Guy’s chuckle faded as she twisted in his arms, hurting. Finding Hood would have to wait. First he must find the things that would help her survive the night – food, water, something for warmth. They’d skirted a farm not far back, he would return there and steal what they needed. Perhaps even a cart. Then, under cover of night, they could take the road further into Sherwood. Hood would be sure to find them.

“Meg, I must leave for a while,” he said softly. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” “

Take me with you,” she said.

“I’ll find a cart, so that I can,” he said, hating his helplessness.

He didn’t want to carry her further and risk reopening the wound. His hands moved restlessly up and down her arms. Meg gave a slight shake of her head.

“Don’t be long, please. I don’t want to.....be here....alone.”

Guy knew she could die here, in this glade. Her eyes were frightened, but he must act. Very carefully, he moved her onto the ground and knelt beside her. He stroked her curls one last time and stood.

“I won’t be long,” he promised.

He wouldn’t allow her to die. 

                                              ------------------------------------------------------

It went as smoothly as any of their forays into the castle. By evening they were outside the walls, the treasure stowed safely in carts, teasing Much. Glad of the distraction, Allan pulled Tuck aside. Of them all, Tuck might understand; the others would think him crazy. He wondered if he was, a little. After all, what did he owe Gisborne? Sure the man had taken him in when he’d had nowhere else to go, but had then treated him like a lackey. And Gisborne had killed, or almost killed, two of the people dearest to him in the world.

Allan had hated him for Marian’s death. Afterwards, he understood Imuiz could only have ended in tragedy. Galloping into that village the lines of loyalty had been drawn; the whole situation needed only the smallest spark to go up like Djaq’s black powder. But if someone had told him beforehand that it would end with Gisborne murdering Marian....well, he’d have thought them too long at the ale. After all Giz had done for Marian, after the betrayals he’d forgiven? He’d have told them they were mad. And Allan had questioned his own actions, repeatedly.Sure Guy’s sword ran her through, but was there something he could have done to prevent it? He knew Marian was headstrong and impulsive. When she’d asked him to kill the sheriff, he could have pretended to go along with it. At the very least he could have dodged her punch; should really have seen that one coming. These thoughts had plagued him many a night, as he lay in the forest wishing Guy of Gisborne dead.

And then throwing Robin from that cliff...honestly, the man left nothing but devastation in his wake. So Allan couldn’t explain why he was doing this now, except that seeing Guy plead for the girl had reminded him of a few things. Like, things were never quite black and white. He had a feeling, too, that if Marian were here she’d be telling him to do this, in that high-handed way of hers. If nothing else, he’d do it for Marian.

“You want to what?” Tuck exclaimed, looking at him closely.

“Shush!” Allan said, tugging him further from the others.

“Robin will never agree to it.”

“Convince him, he listens to you sometimes.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Look – will you just do it? The girl might not have long to live if we don’t find them.”

Tuck considered.

“Very well, but where will you look? What will you do if you find them?”

“They went out the west gate, and would have kept away from the roads. I think I can figure where he might have gone, I got to know him pretty well.”

Was that the wrong thing to say? Tuck might suspect his loyalty. But if that were true what did it matter? This was no Sheriff’s master-of-arms he sought to help; Guy was hunted like the rest of them now.

“We’ll unload the gold and come back for you. We’ll wait at Dead Man’s Crossing, that’s nearest the west gate.”

“Knew I could count on you Tuck,” Allan grinned, darting off into the undergrowth.

He was making a lot of assumptions, he knew, but he figured Gisborne would get no further than the river. When he reached its banks he followed the paths and where there were none crashed through bushes and branches, hoping the fugitives would hear his approach and make this easier for all of them.

“Guy. Where are you?” he called.

Allan stopped to listen. Nothing but bird chatter, and creaking branches. He shouted again, pushing through a dense copse that opened on its other side into a dappled glade. He heard a soft moan, saw the purple-clad figure propped against a tree. Guy wasn’t there. He knelt beside the girl. She was shivering, probably from shock and pain as much as cold.

“Here,” he said, taking off his jerkin and tucking it round her. She looked up with glazed eyes, her breath uneven. “Where’s Guy? No, don’t try and talk, I guess he’s gone for help. Look, if he comes back while I’m gone, give him this.”

He took the thong from around his neck and gave her the tag that identified him as one of Robin’s men.

“Tell him Allan’s gone for help.”

He ran then, hoping Tuck was as good as his word. The girl was in a bad way, the sooner they got her to shelter the better. Tuck met him at the crossroads; Little John too. Good, between them all they could manage the girl – and maybe Gisborne too, Allan knew how unpredictable he could be. But Guy had still not appeared, and the girl was unconscious. Tuck knelt, frowning over the wound.

“Careful,” he instructed. “Jolt her as little as possible.”

They carried her the short distance to the road.

“I’ll wait for Gisborne,” Allan said.

“No,” John told him. “Robin said just the girl.”

“You didn’t tell me that. What if Giz had been there, you think he’d have just let her go?”

“If he wanted to save her, yes,” John argued.

“He’ll want to know she’s safe! For all he knows, anyone could have carried her off.”

“He shouldn’t have left her then,” John said roughly.

“Aw come on, what was he supposed to do? I had to...”

“There’s no time for this,” interrupted Tuck. “She needs our help.”

He tapped the tag Allan had slipped back over his head.

“Leave that for him, it will reassure him she’s with us. Now let’s go, it’ll be dark soon, and this girl is badly injured.”

They got the cart moving and Allan ducked back to the glade. He had a better idea, one that would let Guy know for certain she was safe. He took out his dagger and carved a symbol on the tree, one he’d never expected to use again – the traitor’s sign they’d once used to communicate with each other on the poles of the Trip Inn. Satisfied he’d done all he could, Allan sheathed the blade and loped back in the direction the cart had taken.

                                             -----------------------------------------------------

The farm lay quiet, a tang of wood-smoke in the air. Guy stood concealed by the tree-line, watching. He could hear an axe chopping behind the house, and clothes flapped on the line; he guessed a servant or two at most remained. The family would have made a day of it in Nottingham, watching an execution (his!) and taking their poultry and produce to market. They’d be back soon; the day was waning. He moved stealthily toward the dwelling, keeping an ear trained on the rhythm of the axe. No other sounds. He reached the door, hanging crooked on its hinges, and aligned his eye with the gap along the jamb. A serving girl stirred a pot over the fire. The door creaked as he pushed it open, two quick strides and his hand smothered her scream.

“Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you.”

Wide eyes met his as she nodded. Taking no chances, he stuffed a cloth in her mouth and bound her. Moving quickly, he rummaged from room to room, tossing things about in his haste, conscious that the risk of discovery increased the longer he took. If he were caught, this would all be for nothing. Meg would die. Food, blankets, an extra cloak – he found a shelf full of potions and remedies and recognising a label or two he grabbed them also and folded everything together in a bundle he could carry... ....a crash came from behind. Guy swung round. The girl had knocked the table over and sent jugs and pots clattering. The axe-beats paused.

“Gwen? Everything alright in there?”

Footsteps approached. Looking murderous, Guy loomed over the girl. He grabbed a knife and prodded it against her neck.

“Tell him you are fine, if you value your lives.” He tugged the cloth from her mouth, eyes boring into hers.

“Yes.” It came out as a squeak. “I’m fine, I just tripped.” This was spoken more strongly. “Go on with the wood, I’m almost out. They’ll be back soon.”

Guy smirked; this was for his benefit. He shoved the cloth back in her mouth and leaned in close, voice low and menacing.

“Another sound and it’ll be your last.”

Straightening, he had to stoop so his head didn’t hit the ceiling. He looked out the window. Long-limbed shadows reached from the forest; he was out of time. He could hide in the stables and wait for the family to return with their cart, but after his raid they’d be alert for trouble. He had to get back to Meg. Panic for her washed through him; he shivered. He would have to make do with what he had. Hampered by the bundle, Guy pushed out the door and staggered up the slope toward the forest. With no one to hinder him and no alarm raised, he retreated into the forest. Old habits...alert to every creak or snap of twigs, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a hostile place. It was no place for Meg. Tomorrow he would return, to the farm or elsewhere, and steal a horse. Then he would ride for Locksley and find Thornton. Somehow, he would get Meg out of here. 

                                             ---------------------------------------------------

"If she makes it through the night, I think she’ll live.”

The voice was deep and reassuring. Meg, drifting in and out of consciousness, felt something press against her wound. She tried feebly to push it away. It hurt. Her side burned and throbbed, and whatever it was they were trying to apply made it worse. She wanted to be left alone.

“She won’t leave the poultice on.” Meg heard a woman, frustrated, speaking by her head.

“Give her this, it’ll help the pain.”

A woman’s face appeared, with clear grey eyes and a slightly bulbous nose. The rim of a cup touched Meg’s lips. She turned her face away.

“Where is...” the words came out as a croak. Meg swallowed and tried again. “Where is Guy?”

“Don’t worry about him. You are safe.” Someone else leaned into view. He was dark-skinned, a leather cowl laced about his neck. “Drink this. We need to make you better, we can sort everything else out in the morning.”

“But Guy. He will...is he here?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Now drink.”

The monk looked up sharply. Meg knew this meant something, but was too mired in pain to figure it out.

“Where is he?” She knew this was the right thing to ask.

“Sleeping. He was exhausted, I’m sure you don’t want to wake him,” said the woman.

“Kate...” cautioned the monk. The woman waved him quiet.

“Now drink this – you can see him in the morning.”

Meg knew now that she was lying, but was too tired to argue. Instead, she pushed the cup away and, bracing her elbows, tried to sit up. Hands reached out as she collapsed. As she passed out voices spoke urgently across her, but not the one she wished to hear above all. 

                              ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Night came quickly amongst the trees. Twice Guy lost his way; the bundle he bore snagged on bushes and hindered his progress. Each wasted minute increased the chances she wouldn’t survive. He tried to stay calm. Thrashing about would achieve nothing. He stopped, running a hand tiredly over his face.

“This way,” he muttered.

Methodically, he retraced his steps. She was gone. It was too dark to see, but Guy knew the glade was empty as soon as he entered it. He let the provisions fall and staggered to the tree. The day was taking its toll. Shaking, he braced a hand against the trunk, his blurred gaze resting on the moon-shimmered water. Reason and hope deserted him. His efforts had been for nothing; someone had taken her. He had little enough faith in men to suspect the reason to be good. He imagined her behind bars again, or worse, nursed back to health for the ill-use of whoever had found her. He knew what the world was like; after all, hadn’t he and Vaisey helped make it that way? Head bowed, Guy raked his hand across the bark, his nails digging in despair. They came away sticky. He wiped the sap on his shirt, distracted; something struggled to break through the fog of his thoughts. He put his hand back on the surface. The ridges of bark had been ruptured – someone had carved something there. He pulled himself upright, squinting, but it was too dark to see. He traced the lines of sap with his finger, and on the third attempt the symbol resolved itself into something he knew.

“Allan!”

Relief made him weak. Guy slumped down, head falling onto his chest. Now that he knew she was safe, nothing could keep him awake. He retrieved the blanket from where he’d dropped it and rolled himself in it, keeping his sword hand free and the blade within reach. Tomorrow he would search until he found her.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The birds woke Meg. Idly she wondered what it was that required them to make so much noise. She lay quietly, listening to the soft snores around her, and the sounds of the camp stirring. She was weary, the wound gnawing at her side. Her thoughts drifted to yesterday, but skittered away from the horror of their near-execution. They’d escaped; they were alive, though Meg wondered for how long. She knew the dangers of infection. Even now, pain made her lightheaded. She floated in and out of consciousness, a half-way state that was both comfort and curse. She struggled to patch her thoughts together. There was something important she had to do.

When she next woke, the woman with the rounded nose was there with a bowl of soup. Ragged strands of thick blonde hair framed her face.

“Here,” she instructed, “drink this – Tuck says you must keep your strength up.”

_He_ had told her that, in the dungeon.

“Where’s Guy?” she asked. The woman hesitated.

“You lied!” Meg accused, remembering her suspicions. “He isn’t here.”

“No, he isn’t, and he won’t be coming anywhere near us,” the woman snapped, spilling soup in her agitation.

“Kate!” the monk admonished, appearing beside her. He took hold of the bowl. “Here,” he said gently to Meg. “Let me help you.”

Meg turned her face away, tears squeezing out.

“I want Guy,” she murmured. “I won’t eat until you find him. He’ll be worried about me.” “

We left a mark for him to find. He will know you’re safe, with us.”

“And who are you? Where am I?” Meg turned back to the monk.

“I’m Brother Tuck, this is Kate. We are with Robin Hood.”

“He hates Guy,” Meg moaned.

“Well you have him to thank that Gisborne’s even alive.” Kate leapt to Robin’s defence. “I wish he wasn’t.”

Meg ignored her.

“Is this true?” she asked Tuck. She had no clear idea of what had happened before their escape.

“Robin shot the executioner,” Tuck confirmed. “But let’s forget all that for now and get you well. Then we can decide what happens next.”

The monk took a rolled up cloak to prop behind her, but Meg struggled, feebly pushing him away.

“No, I won’t eat. Not until I see Guy.”

The monk stood back, gazing thoughtfully at her.

“Tell me your name.” “

Meg.”

“Meg, it isn’t an easy thing you’re asking. You understand, I’m sure, the struggles we’ve had against him as the Sheriff’s right hand. The man has much innocent blood on his hands...”

“....he killed my brother, ran him through with a sword. He was only sixteen.”

Kate’s eyes were hard, bitter. Meg turned instead to look at Tuck.

“But he’s not with the Sheriff now,” she pleaded. “He’s an outcast, like you. You’re a monk, you must deal in forgiveness.”

“I don’t,” said Kate. “I’ll never forgive him. Let her starve, Tuck – Gisborne won’t be coming here.”

“Kate, this isn’t helping....”

“What’s going on? What’s all the noise?” A figure stepped up, shrugging into his shirt. A shock of brown hair fell across his forehead. Despite the beard there was something almost boyish in his face, Meg thought. Until you looked into his eyes.

“Robin, she’s insisting we find Gisborne!” Kate scoffed.

“Thank you for saving us,” Meg said quickly, hoping to find an ally.

“Gisborne finally said something that made sense. You didn’t belong there,” he replied. “You’d done nothing wrong.”

“Please find him. He’s alone,” Meg whispered.

All the arguments she should use to convince Robin deserted her. As the rest of the outlaws gathered round, the effort overwhelmed Meg. She slipped under again, until raised voices brought her back.

“People can change Robin.” Meg heard Tuck’s measured tones, his plain way of speaking. “Would the Gisborne we once knew have humbled himself before Isabella for the sake of a girl?”

“She’ll mean no more to him than Annie did. She’d be just a way for him to pass the time in the dungeons, no doubt, having a bit of skirt to play with.”

Meg’s denials stuck in her throat. She wasn’t the only one who was shocked.

“How can you say that, Kate? That’s wicked.”

“Hey, steady on....”

“I agree Much, Allan. That’s not what this is about,” said Robin.

“How do you know? We don’t know her at all,” Kate said sullenly.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Tuck put in. “To get back to the question in hand, do we bring Gisborne here? What harm could it do?”

"He's been here before,” said Much, "and I could hardly stop you killing him."

“Don’t remind me," glowered Robin.

“it'd be different now though, wouldn't it?” asked Allan.

Robin held up a hand.

“Let me think.”

Despite his willingness to consult, Meg heard the authority there. The gang waited.

“We’ll find him, if it’s what Meg wants, and when she’s well they can both leave. I’ll go, you too Allan, and John. We’ll split up. He’ll recognise any of us.”

“I’ll not be part of this,” said Little John, folding his arms.

“I’ll go with you,” said Much. “He’s likely to put a sword through you.”

“Not if he knows we have Meg,” sighed Robin. “Alright, John, Much, you make the drops today; Tuck and Kate, you stay here and tend Meg. So Allan, you know where to start? Show me.”

There, that was the important thing done, Meg realised.  _Now I can rest._ She slumped down into sleep. 

                                                      ------------------------------------------------------

He was lost, again; he'd been looking for Meg since daybreak. The forest here was sparse, the trees spindly and thin, but there was still enough cover for someone to stalk him. Twigs snapped; he was sure now. Guy could sense movement, but whenever he spun about was mocked by its absence. He kept the makeshift bow strung, scanning in a circle.

“You realise then how difficult life can be in the forest?”

Of course: Hood.

“How long have you and your men been following me?”

“You’re jumpy,” the outlaw taunted.

“Answer me,” Guy rasped, out of patience.

“Gisborne I have better things to do with my day. I’m alone.”

As if to lend this the lie, more sticks cracked nearby. Both men glanced around, but Guy wasn’t to be diverted. He tossed the bow down, drawing the sword at his hip.

“Very well,” he said, advancing. A slight stagger betrayed his exhaustion.

“Really?” Robin walked forward, drawing his own sword. “You’re really sure you want to do this now?”

Guy’s sword wavered. He shrugged, helplessly.

“Why not?”

They kept walking forward, swords ready. Why had he thought this man might help him? Hood never made anything easy.

“I thought you might have things to do yourself. Haven’t you lost someone?”

“Where is she?” growled Guy, closing the gap. He was tired of Hood’s games; he wanted to find Meg. “Take me to her.”

Guy felt a sharp prick in his neck. He should have expected this, another of Hood’s tricks. He crashed to the forest floor.

“Gisborne.....?”

He thought Hood fell too - but surely, that couldn’t be? The dark closed in. 

                                                   ---------------------------------------------------------

They were still arguing. The one called Allan had returned yesterday evening, without Robin or Guy, and thrown the camp into an uproar. Now it was sunrise and they were at it again. Meg wished they’d either make a decision or all just shut up.

“I still can’t believe you let him go off on his own,” accused Much, stirring porridge over the fire. “You know what’ll happen if they find each other. At least with two of you....”

“That was his plan all along, he said so. Besides, he was right. We had more chance of finding Gisborne if we split up.”

“What about now? How do we find them now?”

“Enough,” rumbled John. “We eat, then we go and look.”

“Not hungry,” muttered Allan.

He slipped on his jerkin, strapped on his sword, and trotted out of the camp, grabbing an apple on the way.

“Fine,” said Much, “he should be the one to go.”

“I’m not waiting either.” Kate was fastening her own sword-belt. “We need to find him.” “

So I’m doing this for nothing?” Much dropped the spoon.

“Will you stop....”

“Everyone quick, hurry. I’ve found them!” Allan’s shout interrupted them. “Robin’s fighting Gisborne over the hill.”

“Typical,” muttered the gruff one.

Meg watched helplessly as the outlaws, all armed, rushed out of the camp.

“Don’t hurt him,” she cried. The words fell into empty space.

She had to do something. The monk, the one she could have relied on to be the voice of reason, was nowhere to be seen. Meg recognised the danger to Guy, the outlaws likely to shoot first and ask questions later, the woman Kate seeking any chance to avenge her brother. With no clear plan, Meg shifted her weight, planning to ease her legs off the side of the pallet. Pain cleaved her side. When she came to, she lay still, gathering her breath, determined to try again. It could only have been moments; she could hear shouts over the hill. What was happening? She didn’t even have the strength to cry out. Bracing herself, Meg began to move, but a firm hand came down on her shoulder.

“That would be a very bad idea,” came Tuck’s mellow voice.

“Please – save Guy!” she implored, looking up at him.

The monk swung his head up, appraising the situation.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Meg relaxed, feeling faint. She’d at least done something, as long as it wasn’t too late. She heard more shouting, then silence. Plucking the edges of her blanket, Meg watched the path, was relieved to see Robin stride into view and behind him, Little John and Tuck hauling Guy into the camp. When he saw her, Guy shook himself free and strode to her side. He ripped off his gloves, took hold of one of her hands and with his other stroked the hair back from her cheek. She leaned her face into his palm, and smiled.

“Meg, you’re safe...the wound, who’s been tending you?”

“Brother Tuck. He’s very kind. He came to save you.”

“No. Robin did that.”

This recalled Guy to the argument behind them. The big man – John – was staunchly opposed to his presence. Guy gave Meg’s hand a squeeze, and smiled as she clutched it in return.

“Shhh...just a few minutes....”

Meg watched him move up behind John, who didn’t notice Guy was there until he spoke.

“And we’re almost family, aren’t we Robin? We share a brother.”

The gang digested this, but it didn’t halt the debate.

“He’s pure evil Robin!” Kate protested, when Allan eventually defended Guy.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Meg could stand it no longer. Heads swivelled towards her. “He just doesn’t pretend to be something he isn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And what would you know?” Kate mocked. “You spend a couple of days in a dungeon with him...”

“You made it clear what you think happened there. You’re poison! You’re no better than Isabella.”

“Why you little witch...”

Kate stomped towards the pallet; Guy’s hand whipped out to stop her.

“Don’t touch me!” she yelled, swinging a punch with her free arm.

Guy blocked easily, but a groan from Meg distracted him and he didn’t see the second. It connected with his jaw and knocked him sideways. Tuck hauled Kate back but Guy ignored them, bending over Meg.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Help me sit up, please.”

“No. I’ll sort this out, she’ll upset you. Lie still....for me.”

“But she said...”

“I know, don’t worry. She’s nothing.”

“Nothing, am I?” Kate shrilled. “Like my brother I suppose? That’s what we all are to you, isn’t it? Just there to be worked and taxed, and then gotten rid off if we become inconvenient.”

“Kate!” Robin stepped up and took her arm. She glared at him, but his touch seemed to calm her.

“Who is this brother Robin?” asked Tuck, attempting to diffuse the tension.

Meg, weary now and fading, only half listened to the explanation. She heard enough to know Guy and Robin were soon leaving for York. Once the gang accepted this, grudgingly, Robin took the hot-head aside and Guy was back at her side.

“I’m glad they found you,” she said. “I thought I mightn’t see you again. I knew you’d be worried.”

His grip tightened slightly on her hand. With her free one, she fingered a buckle on his jacket.

“I liked you better without this,” she murmured. “How soon do you go? Will you sit with me a while?”

Guy hesitated.

"What, and fuel her accusations?”

Meg’s eyes danced.

“Why not?”

Guy considered a moment, then shrugged out of the leather. He caught Tuck’s eye and beckoned him over.

“Can she sit up?”

The monk gave a small smile.

“I don’t see why not, if we’re careful. I’ll bring soup and you can feed her; she’s had nothing to eat this morning.” 

                                                 --------------------------------------------------------

A strange sort of peace settled over Guy. There had been so many shifts of perception and fortune in the preceding days that these moments with Meg – who, swallowing mouthfuls of soup, was for once indisposed to chatter – gave him the chance to think. She had that effect on him. He didn’t always like his conclusions, but at least Meg gave him back something he thought he'd lost: hope.

If not for her, he wouldn’t be here now. He wouldn’t have learned – after all these years – that he hadn’t been responsible for his parents’ death. Or confessed to Hood the truth he’d finally faced in the dungeon: that Marian’s death had been his fault, and his alone. He could no longer blame anyone else. Was this, then, how he might find a way back from that, sheltered by outlaws who barely tolerated him? Following - and that concept didn’t sit easily - a man who...well, just what was Robin to him now, after all the years they'd spent trying to kill each other? A random memory came: the outlaw on a cart in Nottingham Square, declared dead, and him there with his sword ready to make sure. It had been Marian’s voice which had stopped him, at the apex of his swing; Marian, supposedly back from the convent. In reality she had been here, of course, in Sherwood. It flooded back then, the memory of all his mistakes, and of her betrayals. Of the web of lies which they had both told and which had wound them around and around until everything got twisted out of shape and somehow, without his willing it, his sword had ended up buried in her gut and she had bled out on the sand near the King she defended so passionately and in the arms of...

“We leave at noon?”

He hadn’t heard Robin approach. The outlaw had been watching him with Meg.

“I’ll be ready.” Robin stayed a moment longer, then nodded and moved away.

“You were thinking of her, weren’t you?” murmured Meg.

Guy reached out and with a crooked finger wiped a speck of soup from the corner of her mouth.

“You ask too many questions,” he said, smiling ruefully.

“It’s one of my faults,” Meg agreed.

“What are the others?” teased Guy.

“You’re changing the subject!”

Meg batted his arm feebly. It spilled the spoonful he was holding, and gave Guy the diversion he needed.

“What happened last night?” she asked, when all was set right again.

“This brother, you never knew about him?”

He wasn’t used to this; it had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to bother him with genuine questions.

“No. I learned many things last night.”

“From Robin’s dead father? Where is he now?”

Guy shrugged.

“He’s dying, as Robin said. Malcolm wanted to spare Robin so he used darts to put us to sleep, the same way he trapped us in the first place. I’ll tell you about it, but not now. Not here.”

She accepted this, and ate several more mouthfuls before she spoke again.

“I wish you weren’t going.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Sit with me? Please?”

Guy adjusted the pallet to make room, and settled next to her. Meg reclined against his shoulder, but groaned with the effort of movement.

“Has it torn? Let me see.”

Guy pushed aside the bedclothes to check the bandage; the wound hadn’t bled. He looked up; Meg’s face was flushed.

“Meg, I’m sorry...”

Feeling awkward, he adjusted the blanket back over her and started to stand, but Meg gave a gentle tug, pulling him back to her side.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Stay with me, just for a while.”

They sat quietly, their fingers laced in his lap. Meg’s head dropped, she slept a while until Kate began sharpening swords on the grindstone.

“Do I need to worry now?” Guy asked when she woke. “Will you rest and get well, or make trouble by defending me to that hell-cat?”

“I’ll behave,” promised Meg.

“That I’ve yet to see,” said Guy.

Heads close together, they exchanged smiles. 

                                                     -----------------------------------------------------

The noise stopped. Kate tested the blade, and crossed to where John was standing, arms folded, watching the man and the injured girl.

“It’s like seeing a kitten cuddle up to a wolf,” John mused.

“Or a snake,” hissed Kate.

“I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“More fool her if she falls for him,” said Kate. “I don’t know what she could possibly see in him.”

She swung the blade angrily, then picked up another and went back to the grindstone. 

                                                    ------------------------------------------------------

Tuck, also, had cast more than a single glance in their direction. He remembered the first time he’d met Gisborne, raging like a madman along the river, hunting for Robin’s corpse. The man had shied from his touch, shunning comfort or contact. Yet here he was now, this morning, spoon-feeding their patient with tenderness in glance and gesture.

He’d seen stranger things. He stood by his words to Robin – men could change. He didn’t know where this would lead, but he would be glad to find out. Smiling to himself, he lifted an axe and resumed his search for firewood.


	3. Chapter 3

They stabled the horses in Clun, and returned from there on foot.

York had been a disaster. They had no Archer, he no mount; he was lucky, in fact, to escape with his neck. Archer, brother or not, had disappeared with plans of his own, and on Guy’s horse. But Guy couldn’t summon too much ill-will for this: Archer’s had been one of the arrows severing his noose. The other had been Robin’s.

They’d stolen him a horse.

He didn’t mind being left behind, slowed by riding boots acquired in the same manner. None of the gang knew what to make of him, except Allan. He’d earned grudging approval from John, saving his life in York. The manservant kept a close eye on him, not trusting him anywhere near his precious Robin. Kate would never come round, but Guy didn’t care. In fact, he didn’t really care what any of them thought - not while he had Meg, sweet Meg.

Sweet Meg? _Look at you now, dirty, miserable and alone. And about to be executed._

_You always were a bit pleased with yourself._

_Doesn’t it bother you that nobody seems to care that you’re on the way out?_

At least she’d always tell him the truth. He smiled and quickened his pace. Allan intercepted him when he was near the camp.

“Stop for a snooze, Giz?”

Guy felt the familiar surge of annoyance, but held his tongue.

“Just in time for Much’s squirrel stew.”

“You’re joking...”

“It can be quite tasty, but don’t tell Much. I know, it’s not what you’re used to at Locksley. You’ll find things are different here. We have to get by with whatever we can find.”

“Better than dungeon fare.”

They walked on in silence, leaves scrunching underfoot, until Allan stopped and turned to face Guy.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say!” Allan protested.

“I can guess. And the answer is no, the subject’s closed.”

“Robin will want to know, one day.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Guy. “Then he can ask me. But he won’t.”  

"I reckon you owe me, after all we went through. And you loved her, I know you did!”

“I owe you nothing,” snapped Guy. “You ran out on us!”

“I had to, did it to save Robin. I’d do it again.”

It flickered again, that old envy, his resentment for the loyalty Hood inspired. What made everyone love him? Reliving the past with Malcolm Locksley had brought back old hurts, had reminded him that the youthful Robin hadn’t been especially honourable or trustworthy. He still carried himself with infuriating cockiness, and took his gang for granted. But Guy had something of an answer now: in four short, urgent words - “he’s one of us” – rasped out as Kate held her blade above him. And then in an arrow, piercing a noose, in York.

Now Allan was staring him down. Their roles had switched here, Guy the outsider and Allan not afraid to let him know it.

“I wish you’d taken her with you,” he muttered, pushing past. Then, “Are you going to stand there all day?” he grated over his shoulder.

Allan followed. They were close to the camp, the aroma of cooking permeated the air. _Why did I never look for it at this time of day?_ Not only smells, in the stillness of dusk voices carried. Guy recognised Meg’s as she argued with someone.

“You don’t know anything about him. How can you be so blind?” Kate was almost shouting.

“I know enough.”

“What about his babe? Did he tell you that – once he brought his own child here, into the forest, and abandoned him to die!”

Guy flinched. It was something Meg should know, but to hear it spoken so baldly...he listened, waiting for her to condemn him.

“Of course he brought it to the forest!” she said stoutly. “But not to die - were you nearby Robin? See! He knew you’d find him, he knew the child would be safe.”

“You’re an idiot if you believe that!” Kate cried. Even Robin gave a huff of disbelief. “More likely it was a ploy to lure Robin out of hiding.”

“Maybe it wasn’t his,” Meg rallied. “You don’t know.”

“And that excuses it?”

Guy had heard enough. He strode into the camp and saw Kate draw back startled, but it was Meg he towered over angrily.

“You can’t get up yet?” Meg shook her head.

“Leave us!” he thundered. When no one moved, Guy remembered where he was.

“Please,” he ground out, looking at Robin.

After a moment, the outlaw picked up a small axe and motioned the others to follow.

“Tomorrow’s firewood everyone,” he said.

“I won’t leave just because....” Kate began.

“Kate.”

The others followed with varying degrees of sullenness or amusement. Much pointedly lifted the meal from over the fire and thumped the pot onto the ground, making the contents splash over the rim.

“Sure to spoil now, couldn’t you just whisper like everyone else,” he grumbled, following the others.

When they were alone, Guy paced away, then spun back to face her.

“Don’t defend me to them,” he said harshly. “You don’t know me, or what I’ve done. It makes you sound naive.” “I don’t care,” retorted Meg, though her cheeks coloured. “I know you wouldn’t do it now.”

Guy stood very still, realising what he must do. This had gone far enough. He ran a hand over his jaw; it would be harder than he’d thought. He moved closer.

“Stop looming and sit down,” she said.

He remained standing.

“Meg – you can’t stay here. This is no place for you. When you’re well, we have to return you to your father.” “Are you mad? It was him trying to farm me out that got me in this mess in the first place. And think about it, where is the first place Isabella will look for me?”

“Then we’ll think of something, a convent maybe, until it’s safe to go home.”

“How can you say that?” Meg’s voice rose as her tears spilled. “You’re as bad as the rest of them, thinking you can decide what’s best for me. I know what I want.”

Guy ignored her weeping.

“We don’t always get what we want. Learn that and you’ll be a lot happier,” he said impatiently.

“Like you’ve been?” Meg shot back. “Well I won’t go!”

“You can’t stay,” Guy said stubbornly. “Do you have any relatives?”

“You stupid man.....!”

That did it. Meg weeping he could take; but glaring and shouting, throwing his own insults back at him? His face softened, a smile played about his mouth. Meg bit her top lip, and she began fidgeting with the covers. He sat down beside her, cupping her face in his palms.

“Kiss me – properly,” she said.

“Are you always this forward?”

“Only with you,” she smiled.

Guy met her dancing eyes; his gaze dropped to her lips. Abruptly he sat back, releasing her.

“This is a bad idea. You don’t know me,” he said again, running a hand through his hair.

“You keep saying that. Then I will learn.”

“And you’ll be sorry you didn’t leave when you had the chance,” Guy said darkly.

“I don’t think so,” Meg whispered, eyes shining, sensing she’d won.

They jumped as a spoon clanked into the pot; the outlaws were returning, throwing down sticks and branches, resuming their tasks about camp.

“Had long enough?” muttered Much.

“Hey Giz, sorted her out yet?”

Guy sighed.

“I might be sorry I didn’t leave myself,” he grumbled.

Meg giggled.

                                              -------------------------------------------------------

It rankled that they’d left the camp to give Gisborne the privacy she rarely had with Robin. After all, there was a whole forest out here! But given Meg’s weakened condition, Kate knew she was being churlish.

Annoyed with all of them, she drifted off on her own, and found herself back at camp ahead of the others. It wasn’t really eavesdropping, she told herself, pushing aside twigs to see, not if they were shouting loud enough for their voices to carry half way to Nottingham. A rustle at her elbow, and suddenly Robin was there. She hardly ever heard him coming.

“A lover’s tiff then,” he grinned.

“He’s trying to send her away.”

“I know. Probably the right thing to do.”

“Hmmm.”

“Come on,” Robin took her arm. ‘We shouldn’t be listening.”

“Wait....”

They paused.

“You stupid man!”

Now they were riveted – Kate saw Robin tense. Gisborne wasn’t a man who bore insults well. But inexplicably, his expression changed; even from a distance, Kate could see the tenderness which transformed his face. As he sat down by the girl, Robin tugged her away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s leave them.”

“They’re a very strange pair,” Kate muttered, following him out of the thicket.

Robin didn’t reply. 

                                                  -------------------------------------------------------------

It was the lull before supper. The only patrons beside himself were a minstrel counting his takings, his lute propped beside him, and a few labourers playing dice before heading home. The lass wiping tables gave him a dimpled smile; Archer returned it absently, his thoughts elsewhere.

The meeting with his sister had not gone as planned. Perhaps he’d taken too much for granted, after the _exceptional_ favour shown to him by the Sheriff’s wife in York. He should have made an effort, cleaned himself up a bit. Gwyneth had appreciated his roguish charm but Isabella – here, he should have handled things differently. Too cocky, he thought, gulping the last of his stew, tearing a mouthful from the heel of bread on the platter in front of him. The miscalculation had cost him. He’d escaped being locked up, might not be so lucky next time if he continued to hang around Nottingham. So, where to go? The coins in his pouch wouldn’t last long, not if he had to pay for food and lodging; a rare thing for a man of his talents. But here, he felt his options were limited.

Options he did have though. It bemused him, being related to Robin Hood – hell's teeth, until two days ago, he wasn’t convinced the man existed. He still didn’t know how much was true and how much legend. For one thing, in all the stories he’d heard, Hood and this Guy of Gisborne were mortal enemies. Yet now these two were working together, to rescue him? Bargaining his freedom at their expense hadn’t mattered in the end. They’d all been lined up for hanging.

His own arrow, as accurate as Robin’s, had freed Gisborne. Debt repaid.

Archer signalled the maid for a tankard. He needed to think, very carefully, about his next move. No more mistakes. He’d already seen that Nottingham, mired in plots, treachery and shifting allegiances, was a place where a man could easily come unstuck. So, head for the forest, find these new brothers? It was a novel thing, this notion of siblings. Could he join them, fight for Robin’s cause? Archer snorted. Giving to the poor, worthy to be sure, but Robin was ultimately a King’s man. Archer had seen enough in his travels, both in England and the Holy Land, to decide he would owe his loyalty to no man other than himself. Kings, princes, bishops, they were all the same, whether it meant keeping the honest working man in a stranglehold, taxing him to starvation for their own ends, or slaughtering two thousand supposed infidels in the name of a god Archer would be ashamed to honour if such a sacrifice were demanded. But no god demanded it; only a King, lusting for glory.

He didn’t know what to make of Hood and Gisborne. They made unlikely allies: Robin, with the same careless confidence he himself possessed, and Gisborne, explosive and intense. _Her name was Ghislaine._ When it came down to it, they’d rescued him, but it had been for their own purposes. They’d wanted to use him, his weapons and his knowledge; in that, they were like anyone else.

Besides, he knew something no one else did. Hell was coming to Nottingham. And when it did, he planned to be on the winning side. Plan formed, Archer downed the last of his ale, and caught the eye of the serving girl. He gave a slight tilt of his head toward the stairs; the lass nodded, smiling archly.

He didn’t have to leave Nottingham _just_ yet.

                                                  -------------------------------------------------------------

“Here,” said Allan, dumping a bundle at Guy’s feet.

“What’s this?”

“Your clobber. I picked it up from Locksley, it was all still there. But don’t go getting ideas – I’m not about to fetch and carry for you again.” Allan nodded in Meg’s direction. “I did it for her.”

“What?” Guy turned to look at Meg.

“You had nothing. I just asked Allan to see if he could bring your things back here,” Meg explained.

Guy looked from one to the other.

“Thank you,” he said, touched by the casual kindness.

He picked the bundle up and unrolled it. Leather jacket, trousers, black shirts, braies – it was all there, all the contents of his trunk at Locksley Manor, even his curved dagger. He fingered the blade. Glancing up, he saw Robin’s eyes on it. Was he remembering?

It was one of the many things which had since fallen into place. Marian had been brought here, after being stabbed as the Night Watchman. And when the outlaws had charged down frenzied upon his hapless guards, Hood _killing_ , they had thought her dead. And he, in his ignorance...Guy looked back down. His throat closed up; pressing harder on the blade than he meant, it nicked his thumb.

“Good - at least we won’t smell you coming now,” Kate was saying caustically.

He was almost grateful, the flash of annoyance distracted him from his thoughts.

“He washes his shirt every day,” Meg retorted. 

This earned a few snickers, and she blushed. It angered Guy that they should mock her for his sake, but Meg wasn’t done.

“Well, it’s more than I can say for some of you!”

Robin laughed.

“She has you there – Much, Allan...”

“Did anyone see you?” Guy asked Allan.

“What? No. It was dead quiet. A few servants about, but I reckon Isabella hasn’t set anyone up there yet.”

“She’ll use it to get something she wants,” said Robin.

“Or wait until Prince John tells her what to do with it,” Guy added.

“Funny, innit,” mused Allan, “the last two lords of Locksley ending up here...must be something in the water!”

“I wouldn’t call him that, it was never his, not really.”

Guy glowered at Much, but just then Tuck and Little John strode into camp. Tuck removed his cloak and slung it down; John leaned his staff against a tree and took a swig of water.

“Robin, something’s up. We overheard some guards, they're heading out to intercept a company of mercenaries.”

“From where?”

“They didn’t say.” Tuck reached for the water-skin. “But they mentioned needing an interpreter.”

"Isabella will house them at Locksley,” said Guy.

“Right, best we get to them first. Ideas anyone?”

“They’re coming from Grimsby, could be anywhere along the way. But Robin, a whole company against us few?"

"Exactly Tuck, which is why this time it'll be just me and Gisborne. We'll go and have a look."

“Why him? Why not me?”

“We don’t know where they’re from Much, and Gisborne speaks French. I may need him to eavesdrop.”

“Right –well – I suppose that makes sense. But you just watch your back, with him.”

“Do we have to go through this every time?” Guy snapped.

“Last time you nearly got yourselves hung....”

“Much, that wasn’t his fault. I’ll be fine. Gisborne – ready?"

“When you are.”

Glad to be doing something, Guy tossed through the heap of clothes to find a clean shirt, and shrugged into a jacket. He snatched up belt and sword and buckled them on. He saw Meg watching.

“The man in black,” she murmured.

He sat down, smiling, and took hold of her hands.

“It’s just as well you’re going,” she said. “I don’t know how long I can keep you out of trouble here. If I was well enough I’d thump them myself sometimes.”

Guy’s gaze dropped to her side.

“Are you hurting?”

“It’s less all the time. Tuck tells me I’ll be up and about soon, as long as it’s a little each day.”

“Gisborne....?”

“I have to go.” Guy lifted a hand and stroked the curls from her face. “Thank you for sending Allan. I suppose he made a fuss.”

“Not too much,” Meg smiled. “I think he has a soft spot for you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. Meg tilted up her face, reaching to trace his jaw with her forefinger. Her soft touch, and the look in her eyes, held him there - until he became aware they were being watched.

“When I’m back, we’ll get you up and walking,” he said, rising abruptly.

“I’ll be up before then, you’ll see.”

“Meg, be careful...”

“Gisborne – we haven’t got all day.”

Guy rolled his eyes; Meg was chortling as he left to join Robin. They set off for Clun, and were halfway there before Robin spoke. The question came out of nowhere.

“Have you forgotten her?” The hint of a challenge.

“Never.” Guy didn’t break stride.

“You?”

“Never.”

Robin stopped, so Guy did too. They looked at each other; Robin tilted his head slightly, his eyes slit against the sun. He seemed to be considering whether or not to say more.

“Is this where we prove your man right?” Guy asked.

Robin huffed.

“It might be easier.”

“It might,” agreed Guy.

Robin considered a moment longer, and then resumed walking.

“Come on – we have work to do.”

Relieved, Guy kept pace. He thought he understood, he'd had similar thoughts himself. If they both moved on, it made Marian somehow seem _more_ gone. Stupid really, dead was dead and she’d been gone many months. Yet there it was. And worse, her death became even more senseless, if he...if he what? He thought of Meg, his precious Meg, of how he’d felt on the execution block, of his desolation when she had gone from the glade. God how he needed her...but that’s what had led him so far beyond reason with Marian, wasn’t it? He couldn’t let himself feel that way, if that was the result. Meg felt something for him now, but if that ever changed, if someone stole her affections, could it happen all over again?

An easy question to answer then: no, he would never forget.


	4. Chapter 4

They reined in at a crossroads. Swinging down, Guy stretched; they’d been hours in the saddle. Resting an arm across the pommel Robin pondered the sign for a few moments, and then followed suit.

“Which way?” asked Guy.

“That’s the road to Grimsby, but a long way to the next village.” He pointed to the left fork. “There’s one down there, about a half hour ride.”

“It would help if we knew whether they’re under contract. If they’re after work, surely any town would do....”

“And we’ve no idea if we’re ahead of Isabella’s guards or not.” Robin frowned. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“There’s an inn down there.” Guy had wandered along to the first bend. “We should get a meal and ask around.”

“I could eat,” agreed Robin.

They mounted and rode the short distance to where lamp-light fell warmly in the dusk across a dusty forecourt. A weathered sign on a tilting chain announced it as “The Crow’s Flight”; chimney smoke wavered into the purpling sky. From inside came the hum of talk and laughter; as the door opened Guy heard a mandolin being tuned.

“ _Qu’as tu fait? Imbecile!”_

He exchanged a glance with Robin. The door closed on the shout.

“You there,” Guy grabbed the arm of the lad who emerged. “Who sees to the horses?”

“Not me.” He shook himself free and, with a belch, scampered off down the road.

“Losing your touch, Gisborne?” Robin grinned.

Scowling, Guy grabbed the reins of both mounts and headed for the yard. He found the stable-boy rolling pebbles down the edge of a stall, aiming for a bowl he’d placed in the straw.

“Take good care of these and we’ll find you some coin to do that with.”

As he handed over the animals, Guy looked around. If he needed further evidence that they’d found their quarry, the foreign tack hanging on the hooks and the warhorses shifting in their stalls provided it. He strode out of the stables and back to the inn. Stepping inside, he was bemused to see Robin already raising a goblet with one of the patrons. The man wore a fussily trimmed beard; his pale blue eyes narrowed when Robin hailed Guy at the door.

“Guy – this is Felix, youngest son of the Count of Vaudreuil, arrived from the Vexin. Join us. His friend here, Raoul, can speak our tongue well enough I’m told, unless he’s in his cups. Meet Sir Guy of Gisborne.”

There was some shifting on the bench to make room, a serving maid summoned with comments that didn’t need any particular language to be understood. Guy glanced around; there was a full company here, squashed up around the tables. A drink was pushed into his hand. Two men behind them were speculating why they had no servant. One crude suggestion had Guy almost choke on his ale. But if Robin wanted him to feign ignorance of the language, he would play along.

The other man was of solid build and ruddy-faced. He looked Guy over.

“You are a knight?” asked Raoul.

“Dispossessed,” Guy said bluntly.

“What means this?”

“Landless.”

Raoul grunted.

“Ahhh – we also. Then you are for fee...no, how do you say....for hire?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Gisborne,” - Robin shouldered against him, gesturing with his goblet – “Felix and his men travel to Leicester. He doesn’t believe me when I say it’s best to avoid Nottingham and the forests there.”

“Who would trouble us, a well-armed band of soldiers? We’ve nothing worth stealing. Perhaps you’ve some other reason for trying to dissuade us? You people are always squabbling. Perhaps you have a quarrel there and you do not wish your enemy to gain the upper hand?” The man’s shrewd eyes held Robin’s.

Abruptly Robin leant forward, bracing one palm on the table.

“Tell me, why Leicester?”

“Robert of Leicester defends Rouen for us, a brave man and a capable soldier. There are others who allow their gates to fall open like a whore’s legs.”

“I know Robert. I fought alongside him in the Holy Land. ”

“A Crusader, then?” The captain regarded Robin with renewed interest. “Returned to grow fat on the rewards?”

Robin spread his arms, self-deprecatingly.

“No one grows fat here, friend, not with the taxes placed upon us in the King’s absence. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” agreed Felix, “I’m sure I do. But we’ve no interest in your troubles. We’re here to find work, or have it find us. It doesn’t matter where. The Earl gave us letters of introduction but if we don’t need them....”

“Are you a gambler?” Robin interjected. Guy glanced sideways, frowning. Now what did he have in mind?

“What do you propose?” asked Felix.

“Anything you like. If I win, you take another route. If I lose, you don’t.”

Raoul nudged the Count’s son, murmured something.

“And I get those,” said Felix, pointing at Guy’s riding boots. “They’re about my size.”

“Done.”

“You’re mad,” Guy accused Robin.

“This way we stand at least half a chance.”

It disappeared within minutes.

“Where’s Allan when you need him?” Guy heard Robin sigh, as he lost the roll again.

The onlookers snickered. Robin threw the dice down in disgust.

“Your boots please, monsieur.”

Sullenly, Guy took them off and handed them over.

“Wait," he said. "I’ll arm-wrestle for them...you...if I win, I get my boots back.”

“And if you lose...his bow.”

Guy caught the glimmer of mischief in the captain's eye.

“Fine.”

“Oi....”

“Another.” Guy gestured to the tavern maid. He shrugged out of his leather, rolling up his sleeves. “What do you think you’re doing?” Robin grabbed his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I can take him.”

“Great; why not wager the horses as well?” Robin muttered, furious.

Guy brushed him off. He took a swig of ale, swung his legs over the bench opposite the stocky Raoul, and braced his arms on the table. Raoul took his place, spat on his palms; they locked grips.

“Ready, _monsieur_?”

Guy nodded. The crowd pressed close, watching, as the two engaged. With a grunt of effort, he absorbed the pressure. He tried to draw their clenched hands closer to his body, seeking an advantage. Raoul resisted. Guy held his gaze, but the recent stint in the dungeons had left him weaker than he realised. If it became a trial of endurance, he would lose. He tried again to affect Raoul’s balance, this time achieving a minute shift. Guy struck, working his hand up the other man’s palm, higher, and then twisting his wrist in a single, savage move to bend his opponent's hand backwards.

Raoul dug in. It became a matter of force, Guy pressing his advantage, Raoul resisting. Guy dropped his gaze, hair curtaining his face, sweat beading beneath his eyes; his arm began to tremble. He bore down – there, movement, surely now... ....

...he felt the prick of a blade, just above his belt. There and gone, but enough to startle him out of his concentration. Viper-swift, Raoul struck, slamming Guy’s hand over onto the table. Guy shoved back, scraping the bench along the floor, grabbing the first person he saw.

“Cheating bastards, who was it?” he shouted. “You?”

“Gisborne! Wait we’ll call it a draw... they just get one boot...”

Robin was laughing. This got Guy’s attention, he stopped mid-blow, his fist drawn back. He gazed at the outlaw, incredulous, noticed Felix and Raoul grinning.

“Fine then, so half your bow?”

If he was going to punch anyone, perhaps it should be Hood. He dropped his hand.

“I like you, Robin Earl of Huntingdon,” said Felix. “I think it’s time we had another drink and....”

A blast of night air came in through the open door. With all the commotion, no one had heard horses approach; men in Nottingham livery began to file in the door, led by a Moor with a scar flaring up from his right eyebrow.

“It’s Hood, and Gisborne – get them!” he shouted.

“Not friends of yours then?” asked Felix, bending to pick up the other end of the bench Robin was lifting.

“You could say that.”

They charged, smacking the bench into the advancing guards. Guy picked his man; already dazed by the knockdown, a single blow put him out. The next had the wits to draw his dagger, but a flying cup knocked it from his hand. Guy glanced behind, had no idea who’d thrown it as Robin was battling the Moor, and all around them the company had thrown themselves into the brawl as more guards pressed in, stumbling over their comrades. Guy moved to stomp on the disarmed guard, remembered he was bootless and instead rammed a fist into his face. The man crumpled. Guy sidestepped and, finding himself within range, drove a foot into the back of the Moor’s knee, giving Robin the edge, moving onto the next.

It felt good. Just days ago these fools, Isabella’s lackeys, would gladly have seen him executed; he would show them he wasn’t a spent force. His curved dagger plunged. He thought he heard his name, someone grabbed his arm and he swung round ready to use it again.

“Gisborne – come on. Leave them to finish up.”

Robin was pointing to the inn’s back door, where Felix stood gesturing for them to hurry.

“ _Vite_ ,” urged the captain. “Take your horses and leave.”

“What will you do?” asked Robin, stepping outside.

“You mean will we take employment?” Felix chuckled, but then grew serious. “I doubt they’d offer it now. But don’t worry. As soon as I knew you’d been a Crusader....this means you are a King’s man, _n’est-ce pas_? Well, we bear no love for his brother. He allies himself with our king and they rampage through our lands, burning our villages, destroying our livelihood. I have lost my family. I have lost everything. You asked me why Leicester? It’s because I will bring the fight to your prince. We will repay him for his meddling.”

“So why bother with the wagers?” Guy asked sourly.

“For fun, of course... ” He slapped Guy on the shoulder. “And besides, one must be cautious in these times. Not everyone is who they say they are. Now go, _mes amis_ , before you are missed.”

They ran for the stables.

“Wait!”

Guy turned back. A boot smacked into his shoulder, another skidded to a stop near his feet.

“ _Bon chance_ ,” shouted the stocky Raoul, his head and shoulders disappearing back inside.

Guy grabbed up the footwear and hobbled after Robin, stones jabbing the soles of his feet. He sat and tugged them on while Robin and the boy saddled their mounts. Guy handed the stable boy some coin, and then swung up into the saddle.

“Aren’t you Robin Hood?” asked the lad. “Wait, so you must be Guy of Gisborne. Don’t you two hate each other?”

Guy glanced at Robin.

“I’ll ask him later." Robin winked at the boy. “Maybe not so much, now that he has his boots back.”

Robin mounted and they spurred their horses outside, dodging a handful of Isabella’s guards, thundering back towards the crossroads. Robin didn’t slow, taking the road towards the village. Guy followed. He glanced behind, could see no pursuit as yet. Half a mile down the road, Robin slowed, considering a field of grazing horses.

“Take your saddle off. We’ll not outrun them, the horses aren’t rested.”

They turned the animals into the field, and hid the tack in a copse of trees. Robin led them along a narrow path which cut through the thicket and then followed the edge of another field.

“This’ll do.” He climbed the fence, swung his legs over and jumped down. “You coming?”

Guy watched as the outlaw settled himself on a cropped patch of ground.

“We’re sleeping in a field.”

“You got a better idea?”

“How about anywhere else?”

“Stop complaining, I got us out didn’t I? And it won’t be all night.”

Guy climbed over and slumped down. He lay back, reflecting that this was a long way from the comforts of Locksley Manor.

“You should stick to shooting arrows, leave the gambling to Allan,” he said after a while.

“It was dark. Even I can’t do that.”

“You know what I mean.”

Guy wrapped the saddle blanket more tightly around himself; already he could feel the seeping chill. A rock dug into his back. He batted away an assault of midges.

“How did you always beat us?” he mused, mostly to himself.

Robin propped himself up on one elbow.

“By surrounding myself with good people,” he said quietly. Then he flopped back down. “Get some sleep, Gisborne. We’ve a long ride ahead.” 

                                              -------------------------------------------------------

Hubert Walter, recently appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, reined in his palfrey and hitched the collar of his cloak further up around his neck. He gazed around the forest; already deepening shadows hinted at impending nightfall.

“My Lord, it’ll be dark soon. Perhaps now...”

“Raff, if you suggest one more time that I ride in that carriage, I’ll hitch you to it and make you pull the damn thing.”

“Yes milord, I’m sorry – I just thought – forgive me...”

The Archbishop sighed.

“No – I should be sorry.” He looked down at his manservant, walking by his mount. Raff looked resolutely ahead, his bald patch shiny in the gloom. “But you know me; I’ll not sit round like a lump of lard doing nothing.”

Raff snorted, without looking up; Hubert took this as assent. Old habits sat hard, with both of them. Raff had been his companion in war, his extra eyes and ears, his confidante and, at times, his added conscience. Being on home soil changed none of that, in his eyes; nor did it, truth be told, for Hubert. With his new position had come more lackeys and lick-boots than he knew what to do with; he’d dismissed them all, preferring to keep close the one man he trusted. Raff had grumbled - perhaps, he said, he should have given some thought to easing his burdens - but the Archbishop guessed how strenuously he would have resisted sharing his responsibilities. The arrangement suited them both; in the current climate, Hubert knew he couldn’t be too careful.

He twisted in his saddle, looking back over the carts lumbering through Sherwood. His peers had sniggered at the notion of personally overseeing the collection of Richard’s ransom. Glorified tax collector, they called him. But after an absence of almost four years, Hubert saw this not only as an opportunity to gauge the political climate for himself, but as a subtle means of letting both the people and Prince John see that there was a new player on the scene. King Richard might remain captive in Ochsenfurt, but his representative was here and visible, in the villages, the towns, the churches and cathedrals. By the time he was invested, Hubert intended to be more than just a face-less title to the people of the realm.

Not only Raff had seemed anxious, however, at his intention to ride through Sherwood. He’d suppressed the mutterings with the logic that if they were threatened, it would be better to have an extra sword than to have someone warrior-trained, like himself, sitting like a ready-to-pluck goose in the enclosed carriage. Besides, everyone knew Robin of Locksley fought for the King; he’d be no threat.

Hubert didn’t bother to mention his other motive; Raff would know anyway. Just because you were glad to be home didn’t mean you could forget that other life, the dunes and the stars and an endless sky, and leading an army half-way across a continent. He’d sooner be astride a horse any day.

He was lost in a memory when this one twitched and flung up its head. Arrows whipped out of the trees; the man next to him took one in the shoulder. The impact spun him backwards from his mount.

“Take cover!” Hubert yelled.

He flung himself behind a cart, Raff beside him. Arrows zinged past. Hubert watched as the guards scrambled for positions that enabled them to protect the carts, leaving his carriage unmarked; good, they’d followed his instructions.

“What’s he playing at?” exclaimed Raff.

“If it’s Robin’s men, he won’t have seen me yet. I’ll make myself known...”

“Don’t be daft, you’ll be stuck before you’re gone five steps. Besides, Locksley might not even be here.”

“No one else would attack a shipment this well guarded.”

“Where is he then?”

Some of the gang, covered by volleys, poured out from the trees and surrounded the carriage in which the bulk of the latest ransom was concealed. Hubert, heart racing, leapt to his feet; how could they know?

“Locksley! Robin of Locksley!”

One of the band near the carriage held up a hand; the firing slowed. He sauntered towards Hubert, thumbs hooked in his belt.

“You’ve heard of me then,” he grinned. “Robin Hood, at your service. Or, should I say, _you_ can be of service to us.”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed. Beside him, Raff shuffled the leaves at his feet.

“He’s not...”

“I know,” Hubert hissed. Then, raising his voice: “If you’re Robin Hood, then you’ll leave us and be on your way. We’re here on the King’s business.”

“I think we’ll be the judge of that. Lads – tie ’em up.”

The outlaws emerged, bows trained on the guards. Men moved swiftly amongst them, binding feet and wrists. Raff struggled, gave one a head-butt; grunted, a bow jabbing him in the gut. The gang swiftly climbed onto the carts and the carriage, flicking the horses forward.

“We have to...”

“It’s alright Raff – I think I know what’s going on here. Let it be.”

“But they’re taking it all,” Raff spluttered.

“I know. But I think Locksley – the real one – will be keen to know what’s happened here. He’ll help us get it back.”

“We have to find it first,” grumbled Raff, attempting to use one shoulder to itch his face.

“That ransom won’t be going anywhere other than Nottingham, guarantee it. There’d be no other force of this size, or this well-armed, in the same territory as Robin. There’s a new Sheriff there, and she’ll be trying to make her mark. So, we just need to get out of this – can you reach the knife?”

Sacrificing his dignity, Hubert slumped down onto the ground and lifted his boot up to Raff’s bound hands. The manservant drew the blade from concealment and made swift work of the ropes.

“Still, I don’t see why Locksley should have all the fun.”

“Oh he won’t. Trust me, he won’t.”

With this thought, the gaunt face of the Archbishop of Canterbury split into a feral grin.

                                                ------------------------------------------------------------

True to her word, Meg insisted on getting up. It didn’t take long to realise this had been a mistake.

“I need a rest.”

“You’ve only gone five steps,” objected Allan. He was supporting Meg’s arm as she shuffled along the path.

“You’d make a horrible healer,” Meg grumbled.

“What would you expect, I’m a bloke. Sit down here then. I’d better keep you in one piece, or there’ll be no end of trouble when he gets back.”

“You worked for Guy once, didn’t you? Why?”

“You don’t want to know,” muttered Allan.

“I can guess,” murmured Meg. “What was he like?”

“What do you think he was like? A pain in the....sorry....he was – actually, he was okay, if you ignore the odd beating or two. Always shouting, mind, and doing whatever the Sheriff told him. Though not even that. Not always.”

“It was her, wasn’t it? Marian.” Allan wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Tell me about her.” “

Look, I’m not one for gossip...”

“Not about them – just her. What was she like?”

“Infuriating, stubborn - she drove him mad. But her heart was in the right place. She’d help any folk that needed it, dressed up and went out at night....”

“Like the Night Watchman?”

Allan clammed up.

“What – you’re not saying.....?”

“I’m saying nothin’. Anyhow – she was brave, and a good fighter, but bossy. Always knew where to find trouble, and if not she’d make some. I think she liked it...” Allan paused, thinking, “...the danger, the excitement. She was never one for the quiet life, our Marian.”

“You loved her,” Meg said.

“I suppose we all did, one way or another.” Leaning against the same tree, knee raised, Allan picked up a twig and began ripping it to pieces. “Look – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – don’t trifle with him.”

As Meg began to protest, he raised a hand.

“Partly for your sake – let’s be honest, he’s lost it once, hasn’t he? But...I must be soft in the head to say this... Giz has been through a lot. Now he’s here, with us, he’s got a shot at doing something right for a change. I don’t want to see it fall apart. It gets too hard on the rest of us. I mean it was getting a bit old, having to tear Giz and Robin from each other’s throats every time they met.”

“I’m not afraid. He’s different now, I know it.” Meg glanced sideways. “I’m glad you’re his friend.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” scoffed Allan. “Guy wouldn’t. Now come on – are you getting up, or are we going to sit here all day?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Master, you’re back! Where were you? I planned to go look for you but Tuck said....hey, what happened to you two?”

Trudging into camp behind Robin, aching in places one could only expect after the night’s exertions, Guy was in no mood to answer questions. He would leave the explanations to Robin; he wanted to see Meg.

“Where is she?” he asked John, seeing the pallet empty.

“Allan took her walking." 

The big man turned away, listening to Robin’s account. Guy fidgeted with the hard-won boots; they’d given him blisters, but he didn’t want the delay of changing them. Instead he went looking for Meg.

They hadn’t gone far. Guy saw them, Meg leaning heavily on Allan’s arm, taking halting steps along the path. Her eyes were on her feet. Then Allan stopped, her face lifted and joy - clear as light! - suffused her face. She pushed away from Allan, as if she would come to him. Allan moved to grab her, but Guy was there in two strides, folding her against him.

“She’s all yours mate!” Allan lifted his hands away. “Never knew a worse patient. She won’t listen to reason.”

“Who would have thought?” Guy murmured into her hair.

“Right – well – I’ll leave you to it then. Better have her back soon or Tuck’ll be out to fetch her.”

“I won’t walk any further. Tell him we’re just resting a while,” Meg said to Allan, but she wasn’t looking at him. She’d tilted her head back and was gazing up at Guy and she couldn’t stop smiling and he found an answering one tug at his lips.

“Do I have to ask?” She glanced down, fingering the laces of his shirt.

“You usually demand,” Guy teased, and with a finger under her chin he tilted her face up and grazed her lips with his own.

When she slid her arm around his waist he kissed her more deeply. He buried a hand in her hair, his other arm moulding her against him. She met his lips eagerly, and the sudden need he felt for her was so acute that he had to draw back, resting his forehead against hers. He felt her flinch, a hand flickering to her wound.

“What am I doing?” he muttered. “You’re hurt. Come on, let’s sit down.”

He settled Meg against a tree and sat beside her.

“So what happened?” Meg asked. “Much was beside himself when you two didn’t come back last night. He thought you’d been captured, or...”

“...or that I’d hurt his precious Robin,” Guy sighed. “I know.”

“So what did happen?” Guy told her; Meg laughed, and then clutched her side.

“I can just see it – ow,” she gasped. “No – I’m fine.”

“We should get you back. Can you walk, or should I carry you?”

“Carry, I think.” Meg’s look was full of mischief. Then she looked down at his boots. “I don’t know why you bothered to get them back, they’re clearly hurting you.”

She considered him a moment, tilting her head.

“Take them off,” she instructed.

“What?”

“Go on.”

Guy frowned, but complied. He watched Meg stretch her legs out gingerly and pat her lap.

“Give me your foot.”

“No!”

“Just do it!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Guy struggled to understand his reluctance. As he couldn’t explain it, he did as he was told. She took his foot in her hands and began to stroke it, applying pressure with her thumb and then working along the arch. It felt good. His eyes flew to hers.

“I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know.”

Guy grabbed her hand, stopping its ministrations.

“Then why me?” he said roughly.

“Because your feet are sore,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

Guy snatched his foot back and sat upright, annoyed at her evasion.

“Will you make me say it then? Why do you think? ” cried Meg.

Guy rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly ashamed. She’d shown him a kindness, and he’d thrown it back in her face. He started to get up.

“Meg – I’m sorry. We should go back.”

“I’ve spent days on that bed. Can’t we stay here?”

“I need some sleep,” he said wearily.

Meg looked down, but not before Guy saw the hurt in her eyes. Patterned sunlight shifted across her dress, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to regain the intimacy he’d thrown away. He crouched down beside her.

“Would my head be too heavy?” he asked quietly.

Meg shook hers, smiling; Guy stretched out, resting in her lap. Twigs pricked though his shirt, but it was worth the discomfort. He gazed up through the leaves overhead, Meg stroking the hair back from his face in a soothing motion. Guy closed his eyes. He drifted into a restful, dreamless sleep until the next thing he knew Tuck was standing over them - trying to look stern, blocking the sunlight, and insisting that Meg return to camp. 

                                                      --------------------------------------------------------

Travelling with an army at home, Archer found, was very different to the Holy Land. There, though they might not kill like a Saracen's blade, inactivity, heat and boredom had been enemies of a different kind. But to compensate there had been camaraderie, and a sense of purpose. Whatever hardships they’d endured, at least their King had suffered alongside them. Moreover they had had a cause, however misguided Archer now believed that to be.

Some things were the same: the routines, the rations, the rank smell of a large number of men having little opportunity to wash. But amongst this company - most of them Scots - fights were frequent, and Archer slept with a dagger to hand. There was less hope of order, he knew, when the entire force was under the control of a madman.

Four days earlier, he’d been lucky. They’d caught him trying to sneak into the command tent, and things had started to get a little out of hand – there were too many of them – when the flap had flicked open and the man he’d hoped to see had sauntered out, watching dispassionately as his guards administered a beating. Archer needed the man to recognise him – had dealt with him before - but a kick had filled his mouth with blood and by the time he’d spat his mouth clear and swallowed he was too busy fending and dodging to summon anything coherent.

“Wait, don’t I know you? Stop – I said, stop!” Vaisey’s voice had risen with each word.

Archer looked up from the dust. The former Sheriff leaned in for a better view.

“Yes, I remember. You sold me your Byzantine fire. Very good it is, too; we’re just about to put it to use.”

“And I can help you with that.”

“Really? How? I think we can manage quite well on our own.”

“There are a few tricks I can show you. They’ll make it more effective.” Archer scrambled up, wiping the corner of his mouth; the guards took a step toward him, but Vaisey waved them back. “My knowledge, my expertise, will make you undefeatable.”

“Undefeatable...yes” – he drawled the word as if it had two syllables, “I like the sound of that.” 

Vaisey surveyed him a moment longer.

“Alright, you can come with us. You there – find him – whatever....”

Losing interest, Vaisey had turned away with a flick of his hand. As an afterthought, he’d turned back and smiled, gold tooth glinting.

“Of course, if you fail me, we’ll dunk you in it yourself and light you up like lightning.”

The threat hadn’t bothered him. But now, as they neared Nottingham – was he ever going to get away from the place? – his unease grew. It was one thing to sell his weapons and be safely elsewhere, but as they entered Sherwood Archer was uncomfortably aware that he’d sold his services to a man bent on destroying the same people Robin strove to protect. It was a damned inconvenient time to be developing a conscience.

A commotion distracted him, tree branches rattling, and a flurry of arrows zinging through the air. Guards were running after someone and shouting. Then all went quiet.

“We’ve caught an outlaw,” one man ran back to tell Vaisey.

“Well, bring him here then!” Vaisey dismounted and began to pace, slapping his riding whip across a gloved palm.

“Let it be Hood,” he muttered, “oh please let it be Hood.”

Grunting and heaving, the guards dragged their victim back to Vaisey. Archer inched forward, clenching his hands. Not Robin, surely? Whoever it was, the arrows had found their mark. No less than five stuck out of him. Vaisey flipped the man over and examined the face, taut with agony.

“Hmmm – I don’t know this one. You!” He jiggled one of the arrows, eyebrows lifting as the man squealed. “Are you one of Hood’s men?”

“Sir...” One of the mercenaries crashed out of the bushes. “We found a deer, over there. He’s a poacher.”

“So, you’re just a common thief,” Vaisey crooned. “Not one of Hood’s gang of noble idiots? How sad for you, no one to come rescue you.”

Archer watched as he leaned over the man.

“I’m not sure why they wasted five arrows,” he said pensively. “I think I’ll take a couple back. What about this one?”

He flicked the shaft and the poacher groaned.

“Or this one?” Vaisey leaned on the arrow piercing the man’s arm, pushing it deeper.

The guttural scream sickened Archer; it brought back too many memories. It was something he’d expect to hear in the hot, unforgiving sands around Acre, not in the breeze-swept byways of Sherwood.

“Whoops – I was supposed to be removing them.” Vaisey grabbed another arrow, this one from the torso, and with little tugs, watching the contortions on the man’s face. He slowly pulled it out. “Oh – is he dead? Too bad. Well, clean this up. And bring that deer for supper, I’ve not had venison for ages.”

Archer stood where he was as Vaisey remounted and the guards hastened to obey. Someone gave him a shove.

“Make yourself useful.”

He stepped forward, looking at the corpse: matted grey hair, a stained tunic, brown eyes staring sightless at the sky. A family somewhere, waiting for him to come home. Then others were there, ripping out the arrows, bundling the body into a ditch, moving on. Archer had seen far worse, but it had been war. As the column marched forward, he stared at the back of Vaisey’s black doublet and wondered when men like this had brought war to England and what, if anything, he might be inclined to do about it.

                                                    ---------------------------------------------------------

Guy sat on a rock by the river and pulled off his boots. Then he picked up the gown beside him, fingering the blood-stained mess at the waist. Meg had been wearing something different that morning, had explained that Kate brought it for her from the village. Afterwards, he’d planned to thank the hellcat but before he could get the words out Kate had thrust the torn gown into his hands.

“Robin asked me. But I’m not washing this for her, you can do it.”

There’d been malicious satisfaction in her face, thinking the task would humiliate him. His lips twisted, thinking of all the things he’d had to do in the years of his service to Vaisey. If Kate thought cleaning a garment for the girl who’d taken a pike for him would test him, she had a few things to learn. There was little he wouldn’t do for Meg.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? What could he do? He was powerless, landless, outlawed, and without resources. He could give her nothing. He didn’t even know how to go about getting this damn thing mended, or finding her new ones; he couldn’t meet her most basic needs. He tossed the dress aside, and raked his hands through his hair.

Stones rattled. He turned his head and saw the monk approaching.

“It’s you,” he grunted.

“Who did you think it might be?” Tuck asked equably.

“Her, come to gloat.”

The monk sat on a rock nearby, adjusting his robes.

“If you let me have that,” Tuck said, “I can take it to Nettlestone and get it mended.”

“I don’t have coin to pay for it.”

“No need. The villagers do such things out of kindness, to repay the help we give them. And Robin has organised a seamstress to supply a few items of clothing for Meg.”

Guy glanced up sharply.

“So we live on charity,” he said. The word tasted bitter.

“We look after our own,” Tuck replied. “It’s how things are done here. You’ll get used to it.”

Guy lapsed into moody silence, staring out at the river. The immediate problem was solved, but it made him uncomfortable. He hated depending on others.

“If I ask what troubles you, will you consider telling me the truth this time?” Tuck asked wryly.

Guy looked across at the monk, deliberating.

“She should go home,” he muttered at last.

“Is that what she wants?”

“How would she know what she wants? She’s just a girl.”

“No older or younger than another you once knew – yet I gather that lady knew her mind very well.”

“How can you mention her?” Guy ground out. “You know what I did. It’s why Meg should leave.”

The monk picked up a pebble, skimming it out across the water.

“None of us can change the past,” he said, “but we do control our future. As long as we learn from our mistakes...”

Guy snorted.

“Mistakes? What if my _crimes_ are – irredeemable?”

Guy heard movement, and then the monk was standing beside him. He put a hand on his shoulder. Guy tensed, but didn’t flinch.

“You’ve been given another chance. Meg has been spared; she is here, and you are here. Everything happens for a reason.”

“Not everything,” Guy said darkly. Now he did shrug Tuck’s hand away.

The monk sighed. He leaned down and began taking off his boots. Hitching up his robes, Tuck waded out into the shallows.

“Here.”

He gestured for the gown. Guy tossed it to him, watched a moment as the monk swirled it in the water and then, rolling up his trousers, he splashed in to help. The waterlogged fabric was heavy; they each lifted an end, twisting it into a tight roll to wring it out. As they dunked it again, Guy stiffened.

“Gisborne, Kate said we’d find you here.” Hood’s mocking voice, from the top of the bank. “You make a fine washer-woman.”

He looked up; Robin stood there, arms crossed over his bow, Much and Allan beside him, laughing. Guy stomped out of the river, gathering up his boots. He felt ridiculous.

“Nothing better to do, Hood?”

“Thought we’d bring ours too.”

Now Guy saw the piled clothes at their feet. Incensed, he would have charged had they not had the uphill advantage.

“Do it yourself,” he growled.

“Maybe we will.”

Guy watched, dumbstruck, as the others clambered down and, tossing jests and insults, began divesting themselves of boots and rolling up trousers. Tuck grinned, gesturing him back to their task. It became a messy business, everything worn as wet as the laundry by the time they finished. As they splashed out, Robin nudged Guy with his elbow.

“So serious, Gisborne? Had to use the chance to get these two to clean up.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” protested Much. “Kate and I usually....”

“I know Much, I know,” laughed Robin, slinging an arm round his shoulders. “And I’m grateful, truly.”

They laid everything out to dry and dripped their way back to camp, boots tied by laces and slung over shoulders. Meg was sitting by the fire chopping herbs, when she heard them coming she sought Guy and a smile lit her face. Her eyes shone as she levered herself up. Guy’s spirits lifted. He’d never experienced anything like it before, this uncomplicated lightness of heart at the sight of someone....

He happened to glance at Robin then, who was looking studiously at his feet. Guy stopped abruptly.

“Hey, watch it,” said Allan, bumping into him.

Guy ignored him. He was remembering Marian: her dress white in the blinding sun, beautiful and determined, shining with her love for Robin. He hadn’t been able to bear it. This, he suddenly realised, was what he’d cost the other man. This, and more, was what she and Robin might have had.

Muttering that he’d forgotten something, he pushed past Allan and strode away.

“You’d better go to her Tuck,” he heard Robin sigh.

“Giz and his bloody women,” grumbled Allan. “Oi, Much, what’s that for? Oh. Sorry Robin...” 

                                                        ----------------------------------------------------

“Here,” Tuck said kindly. “Dry your tears.”

Meg, face turned to the wall of the shelter, wished he’d go away. The worst of her weeping had passed but she wanted to stay here, not facing anyone. Guy’s rejection had left her hollow and ashamed. Her father had always told her she wore her emotions for all to see, hadn’t he? It was another of her failings.

Sniffing, she put a hand out for the kerchief without facing the monk.

“You must be patient Meg. This isn’t easy for him."

"What?” Meg turned over now, indignant. “Seeing that I care for him? Am I that repugnant?”

She sniffed again, less loudly.

“You know why. He has loved before, and not well. You must give him time.”

“He’s always holding back,” she whispered.

“That’s because he cares for you.”

Meg said nothing. The monk rose, placed a hand briefly on her shoulder, and then left. She turned back to the wall, and lay there in her misery, wanting only to hide. She might have slept, for it seemed a long time later that she knew he was there, his weight on the edge of the bed, her name spoken quietly.

“Meg – forgive me.”

She twisted round to see him, dark hair framing his face. As always, her heart turned over at the sight of him. It crossed her mind that if her feelings unsettled him, she should try and hide them, but she was never one to deceive.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, her voice small. “If you don’t want me.... I don’t care what happens. I might as well go home.”

He caught her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her palm, eyes intent on hers.

“You stupid girl...” he murmured.

Meg smiled.

“If that means what I think it means, will you hold me?”

In a heartbeat she was cradled against his chest, his long fingers stroking her hair. She shifted to make room and he joined her on the bed. They lay in a tangle of skirt and black-clad limbs, and were still there much later when they heard shouts, someone – Little John, she thought - running into camp, raising the alarm. Guy released her and sat up, alert.

“Robin – Robin.” The big man had been running; he bent double, catching his breath. “It’s the Sheriff – he’s back. I saw him.”

Guy exploded to his feet and hurled himself at John, clutching his jerkin.

“No!” he roared. “It can’t be. I killed him.”

John pushed Guy back, raising his staff.

“Gisborne!” cried Robin; Tuck and Allan restrained John.

“It can’t be,” Guy said hoarsely.

“If you’ll just listen,” John glowered. “It is him. I saw him, I tell you. I’d just come from checking the food store when the miller’s son came at me, babbling something about an army on the outskirts of Sherwood and about someone being back from the dead. So I went to have a look. It’s him alright, and he has an army. He’s on his way to Nottingham as we speak.”

“I put a dagger in him. I saw him die,” muttered Guy.

“Well,” said Robin, “it looks like this ghost has just raised an army.”

Meg shivered at the expression on Guy’s face. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Gisborne, no!”

Guy ignored Robin, fastening his jacket clasps.

“I’m finishing it this time.”

He picked up his sword belt, buckling it on; the weapon followed.

“Didn’t you hear me, man?” said Little John. “He’s surrounded by an army. You won’t get near him.”

“Got a better idea?” snarled Guy, facing Robin.

“Probably ten, if you’d all be quiet and let me think.”

Guy checked himself, waiting; Robin paced away. He lifted an arm, holding one of the poles; smacking it, he turned round to face them.

“John – were they the Prince’s men?” asked Robin.

“No. I didn’t see his colours.”

“Prince John appointed Isabella,” added Guy. “It would make no sense for him to send an army against her.”

Robin leaned back, arms crossed.

“We need to find out what he’s up to, where he’s been. I say we go have a look. How far from Nottingham were they John?”

“They’ll be there within the hour, I’d say.”

“Then so will we; Kate, your turn to stay with Meg.”

“I don’t need.....”

“Yes you do, young lady,” put in Tuck.

“Let me come with you Robin...”

“We’re just going for a look. Kate – we’ll be fine. The rest of you, let’s go.”

                                               ----------------------------------------------------

Meg stayed in bed as long as she could. Despite the boredom, it was better than tolerating the other woman’s needling. It was only when Kate left, mumbling over her shoulder that she’d be back soon, that Meg got up to tend the fire. But even bending down to pick up the wood hurt; she wanted to mend quickly, so she gave up and sat poking the edges with a stick, gazing moodily at the flames.

A clatter behind made her jump; she hadn’t heard Kate return.

“Is that all you can do? Here, scrub some carrots, and peel those.”

She tossed down a handful of withered parsnips. Meg held her tongue, and did as she was told. Kate rattled around behind her for a while, finally coming to crouch opposite, tucking her skirt away from the fire.

“I don’t understand you,” she said at last.

Meg could feel her scrutiny, but she kept her eyes fixed on the vegetables.

“He’s evil. I don’t know how you can feel anything for him.”

“Well I do,” she said simply, looking up. “But I’m sorry about your brother. Truly I am.” "So everyone keeps saying,” Kate replied bitterly. “Everyone except _him;_ he doesn’t care.”

“How can you judge him?” Meg flared. “You can’t know what he might regret.”

“If he had a shred of decency...”

“I’m not listening to you.” Meg threw the half-done vegetables into the pot and rose.

“Well you should. It’s pathetic, the way you hang off him.”

“And you don’t do that with Robin?”

Kate’s cheeks flushed.

“At least he doesn’t pity me. He’s with me because he wants to be. Gisborne’s got no choice, he’s stuck with you. Neither of you have anywhere else to go. Maybe you deserve each other.”

With that Kate stood and stomped away. Meg battled back tears, but the cruel words had hit home. She wanted to run, or hide, but with her half-healed wound could do neither. Instead she sat gazing out at the forest, the ugliness of doubt creeping through her mind and like spreading dye staining everything she saw. 

                                                     ----------------------------------------------------

From up in the trees, Guy scanned the forces camped outside Nottingham, seeking one man; until he saw it with his own eyes, Guy wouldn’t believe Vaisey was alive. As he watched, the gates of the town opened and a lone figure rode out. He recognised the Moor. The rider approached the troops and there, moving out to greet him - Guy would know him anywhere – rode Vaisey on a black charger. Guy’s grip on the branch slipped, he clutched another to avoid falling. He tried to calm his breathing. Once the first shock passed, resolution set in. He’d be damned if Vaisey would unman him. He’d freed himself once of this demon and would do so again.

The outlaws held their positions in the surrounding trees. He looked back at the army, and saw one of the trebuchets being prepared. The lumbering arm was drawn back and then released, flinging a substance over the walls that upon impact scattered fires like stars, flames shooting high enough to be seen above the ramparts.

The others were scrambling down; Guy joined them on the ground.

“What was that?” asked John. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither,” Tuck replied, “but I’ve heard of it. Byzantine Fire – it’s a terrible thing, a compound that clings to everything, very hard to put out. If they bombard Nottingham with it, there’ll be nothing left.”

“Then we can’t let that happen. We’ll take out the trebuchets, tonight,” said Robin.

“So where did he get this army?”

“That’s what I’d like to know Much. It can’t be mercenaries, without taxes he’d have no way of paying this many men.”

“Shall we move closer, find out?”

“Not you Gisborne."

“I’ve seen the way you keep looking over there, as if you expect him to appear at your shoulder any minute,” said Much. “Though can’t say I blame you, I feel a bit that way myself. Worse for you, I suppose, thinking you’d killed him. But I don’t think you should go anywhere near him. You and him, it reminds me of those cobras we saw in the Holy Land. Remember Robin, in the marketplace? Weaving up out of their baskets like they were under some weird spell...”

“Much!”

“Shut up Much!”

Guy looked thunderous.

“Allan, Much, go a bit closer and see if you can pick up anything useful.”

While they were gone Guy waited apart; if he heard another word out of that fool’s mouth....though it was never comfortable to hear the truth. Vaisey did have that effect upon him. Bitter as the knowledge was, Vaisey had understood him better than anyone, had used every bit of that knowledge to manipulate him. The things he’d done for that man, without question, spurred by loyalty and ambition...until Marian had come along, forcing him to question. Guy stared bleakly at the high grasses bordering the fields. And there he was, back to where that thought led.

Even now, he wondered, would he be strong enough to withstand Vaisey’s cunning? Well, he did know the answer to that: he’d tasted a world without Vaisey, and would die rather than forfeit that freedom.

The grasses shifted vigorously, and Much and Allan bundled into view.

“We heard their accents,” puffed Much, brushing down his jerkin, “they’re from the north.”

“William’s men?” Robin thought a moment. “That makes sense...”

“Perfect for Vaisey,” put in Guy. “Hide across the border, drum up support while everyone thinks him dead.” “

It would explain the lack of emblems. If William’s currying favour with Prince John he wouldn’t want to flaunt it. He bought the Scots’ independence from Richard before he left.”

“Then what would he be after?”

“More land, more power, John - the same as all the rest.”

“Northumbria,” said Guy succinctly.

Robin gave him a thoughtful look.

“I’d like to know for sure. Right lads – make yourselves comfy, we’re waiting here till dark.” 

                                                  ------------------------------------------------------------

The die rattled in the leather cup and fell against him again. Archer’s opponent, short-cropped and sturdy, scratched his grey stubble. The win didn’t budge his frown. In search of more congenial company, or perhaps preferring his own, Archer counted over his coins and stood.

“Need a piss,” he said.

Someone moved in to take his place. Having made good his excuse, Archer stayed in the shadows. It was a moonless night, the vast quiet of the forest behind accentuating the muted bustle of a camp preparing for the night. He gazed at the walls of Nottingham, and tried to recall what leaps of judgement found him out here killing time until a midnight watch, instead of in there, pleasantly whiling away the hours in a convivial tavern in the arms of a willing maid. The winning side, he reminded himself dully. That’s what it was all about, even if this meant following a madman and raining fire down upon innocents...

...then, of a sudden there was movement...there, he was sure of it, behind one of the carts. He almost shouted a warning to his dicing comrades but checked himself, watching. Dark figures scrambling low along the ground, heading for the trebuchets. And in one of those mercurial shifts of which he knew he was capable, Archer made a decision. He sidled along the edge of the camp to where the horses were tethered. There was a single guard – were they _asking_ for them to be stolen? – who he dealt with silently and efficiently. Stepping over the man, he heard Vaisey striding into the weapons’ field, shouting at Blamire to rouse the troops for immediate attack. Archer worked furiously, saddling Vaisey’s charger and as he fastened the last strap he heard the command “Release!” and then the creak of the trebuchet arms as they flung clumps of simmering flame straight up into the sky. Swiftly he released the tethers on the remaining horses, swung up onto his mount and grinned as Vaisey’s Byzantine Fire came hurtling right back down in their midst, scattering men and blasting the trebuchets to pieces. Behind him, the animals bolted.

Archer cantered into the field as Vaisey, recovering, roared at the Scots to give chase. Blamire followed. Attention fixed on the saboteurs, Vaisey didn’t hear him coming. Archer gave a shout; Vaisey turned and for many reasons – the dead eyes of a poacher, his rescue from a York cell, slaughter without even the _pretence_ of a cause, and simply because, with his own actions, he could _choose_ which was the winning side - Archer released an arrow. Vaisey dropped. The charger, spooked by the explosions, needed handling; Archer made it step closer, looking down at the sprawled figure. Blood seeped from the tip of the arrow where it lodged in Vaisey’s forehead.

Archer dismounted. He grabbed the key that hung about Vaisey’s neck, and wrenched out his jewelled tooth. Hearing shouts, he flung himself back into the saddle and with the surge of battle in his blood rode out into the field to where his brothers – he had no doubt who was behind the attack – were surrounded. Now he could see them, in the eerie light of the spreading fires. Charging out of the smoke, the instincts of a Crusader flooded back, taking over: the grip and pressure of his thighs guiding the horse, the fluid ease with which each arrow went from quiver to bow and then flew to find its mark.

“Run Robin! Go!”

The small group peeled away, running for the forest. Judging the moment, Archer whirled his mount and followed. But there was one thing more to do, a risk, but with the chaos in the camp he might just get away with it. He turned the charger and circled back round the perimeter until he was near Vaisey’s tent. Tying the animal to a branch, he ran in a crouch to the rear wall which he slit with a dagger. Once inside, within moments he’d located a small, iron-banded chest. He unlocked this with Vaisey’s key and began tossing through the contents. Outside there were voices, running footsteps...there, a slim oblong pouch. He undid the clasps, glimpsed the seal on the documents, and shoved them back into the pouch which he then tucked inside his shirt.

The steps outside paused. Sweat prickling his neck, Archer spun to face the flaps, dagger poised. He backed carefully out the way he’d come in, straight into a burly figure relieving himself and whistling a quiet tune.

“Oi, whaddya think you’re doing?”

The man swayed; Archer caught the whiff of ale. He gave him a hefty shove and the man toppled, cursing. Archer swiftly untied his mount, swung into the saddle and spurred in the direction taken by the outlaws. He thundered into the shelter of the forest, glancing behind to see if he was pursued. The pounding of his horses’ hooves came back to him as a muffled echo in the night. Archer slowed; he didn’t know the road, it was too dark to avoid overhanging branches and his recklessness didn’t extend to a mount lamed by a tree root or a hidden dip. That was the last thing he needed.

The second last, he thought, as someone leapt on him from a bank, knocking him from his horse. Winded by the impact, arms pinned by two men, as he struggled to free himself Archer saw several more surrounding him.

“Robin – is that you?”

Someone pushed forward.

“Just hold him still...who are you?”

He recognised the speaker.

“I’m Archer. Your brother, remember?”

“How could we forget?” said a wry voice behind him: Gisborne. “What are you doing here? And where’s my horse?”

“That was you, wasn’t it? ” said Robin. “Thank you. But what were you doing there with Vaisey?”

"Can I get up?”

Released, Archer scrambled to his feet.

“Look, I’m not being funny, but couldn’t we talk about this somewhere else? Before he comes looking for us?”

“He won’t,” said Archer. “He’s dead.”

“We’ve heard that before,” someone else scoffed.

“How do you know?” Gisborne asked, voice low and urgent. “Did you see him die?”

Now that his vision had adjusted, Archer saw his brother’s eyes glint in the dark.

“Put an arrow through his skull. Took this from round his neck...” Archer held up the key. “I’ve more to tell, but...”

“Yes, we need somewhere else to talk. The cave is near here, let’s go.”

They followed Robin, Archer leading his mount. Gisborne flanked him, not willing to risk that he disappear again along with the answers to their questions. The cave, when they reached it, was clearly kept ready in case of need. A neat stack of firewood lay against one wall; there were casks of water and oil, and some rudimentary bedding. Dumping weapons, they all found a task. When the fire was lit, and they had gathered in a circle around it, Archer withdrew the oblong pouch.

“Here,” he said, tossing it to Robin. “I’m guessing this will tell you all you need to know.”

Robin picked it up and slid out the parchment.

“The lion of Scotland...” he murmured, “as we thought.”

He split the seal with his thumb and unrolled the vellum. The cave was quiet as he read, twigs crackling in the flames, the creak of leather as Gisborne shifted. Robin shook his head, and let the parchment roll closed.

“There’s more going on than we thought,” he said. “William’s troops are on their way to Prince John, but with the offer of a future marriage alliance. Nottingham was a sop to Vaisey, not William’s objective.”

“Who's to marry?” asked the big man with the staff.

“He suggests that his infant daughter, Margaret, should one day wed the prince’s son...”

“....his bastard, you mean?” The one with the skull cap spoke up. “What’s the point of that?”

“It’s not about the succession, although he knows John has designs on the throne. This is a throw of the dice in case Richard doesn’t make it home.”

Hearing this, Archer leaned forward.

“What have you heard about the King?” he asked casually.

“That he’s been captured by Leopold of Austria and held for ransom. But little else, since John’s attempt to fake Richard’s death and claim the crown. What do you know?”

Archer laced his fingers.

“He's alive,” he confirmed. “Henry has him, in Germany. Richard’s sent someone back here to take charge of collecting the ransom, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. You might know him, he’s been in the Holy Land. Hubert Walter?”

“I do know Hubert,” said Robin, thoughtfully.

“This is all very interesting,” interrupted Gisborne, “but don’t we have some more immediate problems? Like what Blamire is likely to do with an army of Scots sitting right outside Nottingham?”

“He was Vaisey’s man – will the Scots follow him?” Robin asked.

“Probably not,” Archer replied. “He’s only been with them a day whereas their captain, Ferenac, acted as Vaisey’s second-in-command.”

“Will he try to take Nottingham anyway?”

“I doubt it, without the trebuchets. Byzantine Fire was to be their advantage.”

“Which they will take to Prince John,” pointed out the warrior-monk, “unless we stop them.” 

Then let’s do that,” said Robin. “Much, you head back and let Kate know what’s going on. We’ll keep a look-out, see if they plan to besiege Nottingham, or break camp and move on. If they do, that’s our best chance of getting hold of the carts. How much of this stuff do they have Archer?”

“Enough,” he said quietly.

Robin eyed him shrewdly.

“You?”

Archer drew himself up, meeting Robin look for look.

“We’ll get it back. I’m with you now.”

The question hovered, unasked; Gisborne, too, eyed him intently.

“Wait,” – it was the cocky one who challenged him, “so you’re Robin’s brother, and Guy’s. They rescue you from York, and then you bugger off to Vaisey and sell _him_ all this stuff? And now we’re supposed to believe you’re with us? How does that work? How do we know you’re not working for someone else?”

“ _You’re_ asking?”

“Leave it out Much, it’s gettin’ old. I’d just like to know, wouldn’t you?”

“The transaction,” Archer said coldly, “was some time ago. And I guess you don’t know if you can trust me. Maybe I’ll slit your throats while you sleep...”

Much spluttered.

“...or maybe, remembering I put an arrow through your old sheriff, you’ll....”

“We only have your word for that,” muttered Allan.

“If you need more proof....” Archer opened his palm, revealing a red inlaid tooth. “A small trophy I took.”

“Where did you go after York?” Robin asked quietly.

Archer faced him; Robin he would answer sensibly.

“To our dear sister,” his mouth twisted.

“Let me guess – she threw you out,” crowed Gisborne. “Priceless!”

“She saw me as a slur on our mother’s name.”

“She would, of course.”

“So why are you here?” Robin asked.

Archer stared into the flames, with no easy answer. He lived for adventure and for profit, attachments were fleeting and incidental. Loyalty had been burned out of him in the Holy Land. There were too many shades of good and evil in men, whatever their race, and too many pitfalls in blind obedience.

“To see if my brothers will disappoint.” It was as good an answer as any.

“So far it’s been the other way round,” Gisborne snapped.

“Satisfied Much, Allan?” said Robin. He grinned at Archer, who already knew not to mistake his levity for lack of grit. “Let’s see if we pass the test then.”


	7. Chapter 7

“We’re nearly there, aren’t we?” asked Meg.

“It’s just around the corner.”

Much halted the cart and she surreptitiously covered her wound. She wouldn’t let Much see that he’d been right; the jolting of the cart had tested her endurance. He came to stand beside her, frowning.

“I don’t like this m’lady...”

“....just Meg, Much...”

“...well, I don’t like this. As I said before, isn’t an abbey the first place your father will look? And if he gets hold of you, well, he’s handed you over to the sheriff once, what’s to stop him doing it again?”

“He’d look for me at Kirklees, not here.”

“What if Isabella’s having the place watched? It’s not safe m’la....Meg.”

“Much, we talked about this earlier. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look it, in fact you don’t look well at all. He’s going to kill me, you know, when he finds out you’re gone.”

Meg ignored this; she didn’t want to think too much about what Guy would or would not do. Perhaps nothing; he’d tried before, out of some misguided sense of doing the right thing, to send her away. He might decide, faced with her absence, that this was still the best outcome. It was one of many flaws in her plan, but she’d come too far to back down now. Especially after the torturous arguments she’d had with Much to convince him to bring her at all.

“If you’re worried about anyone seeing us, why don’t you take the track up to that ridge? You’ll be able to see from there if Isabella has posted any guards, though I’m sure she has more important things to worry about. I’ll stay here.”

Much hurried off. Meg descended gingerly and leaned against the cart. This was harder than she’d anticipated. After days of rest and managed convalescence, so much activity had drained what little energy she possessed. Not only that, but her heart was heavy. She slumped down on the board, fighting back tears, but with Much gone and no need to conceal them they flowed readily. She’d had to leave after what Kate said. It was only when Much returned to camp that morning, with news of Archer’s arrival and Vaisey’s death, that the means had presented itself. Kate had insisted Much remain while she went to join the others, so Meg had set about convincing him that she must leave. Now she felt the full weight of that decision. In their own ways, except for Kate, the outlaws had been kind – infuriating, or overbearing, but kind. Each time she’d woken, she’d looked for Guy. Often he was nearby, watching out for her. Her favourite time of day had been the supper hour: sitting on a log at the edge of the firelight, thigh pressed to thigh, they’d held murmured conversations under cover of the bickering and banter of the gang. One evening, after they’d eaten, she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder; she’d only stirred when he’d picked her up and carried her off to bed. By then the fire had died to ashes, and the others were all abed. Sleepily, she’d looked at the stars over his shoulder.

Meg shoved the back of her hand against her mouth, stifling a sob. She already missed the way he looked at her, the warmth in his gaze. This all seemed a horrible mistake; she should just tell Much to turn the cart around and take her home. _Home_.

 _At least Robin doesn’t pity me. He’s stuck with you._ Kate was wrong; but if so, they would prove it. Guy would come for her. She had a niggling fear he might not understand why she’d left. If he thought she’d rejected him, they would be undone. Well, it was up to her to make sure he understood. The message she planned to give to Much... ..

Much! He’d be back any minute. Meg sat up straight and pressed her eyes with the heel of her hand, stemming the tears. If Much returned to find her bawling, no amount of persuasion would prevent him from bundling her into the cart and taking her back to the camp. Fighting her desire for exactly that to happen, Meg composed herself, and when Much loped back down the bramble-lined path she was picking the abundant blackberries that grew beside the road and popping them into her mouth.

“It looks clear,” he said, huffing out a breath. “But I still think we should play it safe, go round back....”

“Much, I’m tired, and you’ve checked...please, can we just find the porter and get her to let us in?”

“Right, if you say so.”

The cart rattled up to the entrance, and as they waited for their knock to be answered Meg put a hand on his arm.

“Much, will you do something for me please? Tell Guy – that I am giving him a choice.”

“So I’ll have to tell him what I’ve done,” he grumbled.

“Well of course – it was never meant to be a secret!” Meg was horrified. “Then I’d never get away from here.”

“I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be here, then why go to all this trouble just so you can come back? And what do you mean you’re giving him a choice? Anyone can see what he’s like around you...he’s almost human. Never thought I’d say it, but...wait, has Kate been saying something? That’s it, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to do this. Will you just tell him, please?”

Much looked at her uncertainly.

“I’ll pass your message on, though he won’t be in any mood to listen. He’s got a foul temper, just you be warned!”

“So have I!” she joked.

Much snorted.

“Well, you don’t have his fist or his sword arm!”

Meg felt a swell of affection for him.

“Thank you for everything. I’ll miss your stews.” She smiled warmly.

The panel in the door slid open then and, after a few moments, was abruptly closed. Suddenly Meg didn’t feel ready to leave. The door was pulled inwards and a tall, white-haired woman appeared. She gazed calmly at Meg, and asked a few questions. As she helped her inside, Meg turned to watch Much go, trembling slightly. She forced herself not to call him back. Was this the last she would see of him, of any of them?

Preoccupied and exhausted, she didn’t notice that someone else had taken an interest in their arrival. As she stumbled inside, a lad working in the gardens put up his hoe, brushed dirty hands down his tunic, and looked around to check that the sister who kept half an eye on him was nowhere to be seen. Satisfied, he filched a pear from the remains of the nun’s lunch and loped off, reflecting that with the coin this errand would earn him he’d be able to afford a proper meal in a real tavern. His mouth watered at the thought. He bit into the pear as he ran, juice dribbling down his chin. 

                                                     -------------------------------------------------------  

Grass scraped his jaw and a sharp hint of smoke wafted up from the fire Kate kept alive at the bottom of the slope, where Guy lay full-length alongside Robin, waiting. Across the road was another bank, where Archer, John and Allan kept watch. Tuck had been tasked with their fire.

The Scots straggled past below along the road, heading south, sluggish from lack of sleep. Guy felt a nudge; Robin nodded toward a rider cantering back along the lines.

“Look lively you men – we’re not out of Sherwood yet,” Blamire called, reining in. “You, bring your company, forward with me.”

“They’re expecting an attack at the bridge,” Robin murmured. “The carts will be most exposed there.”

“I hope this works,” muttered Guy.

“It will.”

As soldiers detached and trotted after Blamire, Robin readied an arrow. Archer would be doing the same. The carts lumbered round the corner into sight, the large ceramic pots they carried padded into wooden framework to prevent them shifting.

“Ready?”

Guy nodded.

Three carts, two swift shots and a third from Archer to de-man them. As the drivers toppled Kate threw Robin an arrow, the wadded tip burning, and slithered back down to prepare the next. Robin and Guy leapt to their feet as troops began running toward them.

“Hold!” Robin cried. “Any further and we explode the jars!”

The Scots staggered to a halt. The one nearest, with close-set eyes and a russet beard, drew his sword and kept advancing.

“You will na’ do it. You’d blow us all to kingdom come, yourself included.”

“I’ll take that chance, to keep it from Prince John,” said Robin grimly.

The man hesitated, calculating.

“Look, it’s simple really. You turn your cargo over to us, we return the King’s proposal for you to take to Prince John, and everybody’s happy.”

“Hardly,” spat the Scot. “The one’s no use without the other.”

“Then maybe you just turn around and start for home. It’s a long walk.”

"You're bluffing."

“Robin!” choked Kate behind them.

Guy spun to see Blamire holding a blade to her throat.

“And maybe we’ll just carry on our way and give Prince John your sorry hides as well. He’ll be most grateful, I’m sure,” he gloated.

Guy assessed the situation. Even without Kate’s immediate danger their situation was grim, a half-circle of Scots facing them, swords drawn, at the bottom of the slope. He glanced at Robin, whose bow had dropped a notch, hoping to catch his eye. Perhaps if they could...

...behind them a great noise like cracking stone split the air, and a bright flare of light glared off the faces below. Kate used the distraction to jab her fingers into Blamire’s eyes and twist free of his grip. Guy charged down the slope, aware of Robin’s arrows zinging past, each dropping its man. His momentum gave him the advantage. He bore down with a roar, sword swinging. More explosions from the direction of the road, but now Guy was locked in combat, his first man down, the second more sprightly on his feet with a few tricks but Guy had seen it all – in the Holy Land, in France, fighting Hood and his men – so he anticipated the feint and the sideways slice aimed at his legs, he dodged and blocked and shoved his own thrust home. Straightening up, hair swinging, he saw Kate fending off attackers to his right. They were outnumbered, but the onslaught of Robin’s arrows was slowly pressing the Scots back. Guy leapt toward Kate, a hack to the torso felled one man and then he was near enough for them to use the trees behind as a barrier and to create a defensive arc with their blades.

Where was Blamire? They needed to be wary of the Moor and his tricks. It was time to break out.

“Now,” he grunted at Kate.

“I’m not taking orders from...”

Guy didn’t wait, he lunged at his man and Kate followed; an arrow dispatched another and suddenly the Scots were scrambling away. Guy looked uphill and saw Archer standing alongside Robin, his aim as deadly as Hood’s. As he watched Blamire broke cover from the brush and bore down on Robin. Guy flicked out his dagger and aimed. The Moor stumbled. His blade dropped and his other arm flapped awkwardly and he grunted as he fell, the hilt embedded deep in the bicep of his sword arm.

Robin knelt on one knee beside the Moor.

“I’ll have that.” Guy stepped in and pulled out his dagger; Blamire’s eyes rolled in a near-faint.

“Now you take this,” Robin urged, handing over the pouch containing William’s message, “and if you’re lucky you’ll get to Prince John before the Bishop of Durham catches up with you. He may have got word William’s scheming to get Northumbria, I’d say his troops will be on the way now to prevent it.”

“You won’t get away with this Hood,” gritted Blamire.

“You’d be surprised what he gets away with,” Guy observed dryly.

Robin glanced up, amused. They left Blamire and loped down the hill. John and Allan were getting two of the carts moving, Tuck attempting to calm their horses, still skittish from the explosions. Archer climbed onto the third and twitched the reins.

“How did you....?” Robin asked.

“Always keep a sample handy.” Archer gave a lopsided grin, holding up a phial before tucking it out of sight again in his jerkin.

“Will they follow us?” asked Guy, looking back toward the bridge.

“Not now they think we have reinforcements coming.”

“So it’s not true?”

Guy looked intently at Robin. He huffed out a breath as they kept walking; his muttered profanity made Robin grin.

The deception had bought them time, but it was a gamble how much. They hastened to get the carts to safety. Guy realised they were heading for the quarry where the black powder explosion had once almost killed him. He scowled, but said nothing. Neither did anyone else. They halted the carts at the northern extremity and burrowed through the undergrowth to where caves further along had survived the collapse of the cliff. Forming a chain the outlaws passed the pots along until they were safely stowed. 

“Let’s get these away and hidden," Robin said, as they stepped back out into the sunlight, brushing off twigs and leaves. "Anyone not driving, we’ll obscure the tracks.”

By the time it was done, the gloom of early dusk was over the forest and Guy had to watch his footing on the shadowed paths. He was hungry, there’d only been time for a handful of berries that day. He was even, Lord help him, looking forward to one of Much’s stews as much as he’d once anticipated cook’s finer meals at Locksley. But this was secondary, when he thought of Meg and their afternoon together yesterday. Until he’d learned Vaisey was alive; the shock of this had driven Meg from his arms and his thoughts. But now, now that he was free to remember, that hour had felt like taking a step outside the world he’d always known into one where, by some miracle, he deserved...

“Oomf.” ...not paying attention, the branch pushed aside in front of him slapped back into his face.

“Sorry mate,” chirped Allan. “But you should watch where you’re going.”

Sometimes, Guy hated Sherwood. Partly the memories of defeat and humiliation, of the menace light and shadow could conjure when hunting or being hunted. Even without that there was the damp, the cold, the lack of convenience; dirt everywhere, and leaves in his food. And though he knew the camp’s location, a new approach, some trick of the light, and he could still get lost, as now, when they trudged over a ridge and suddenly were there. He knew, immediately, that something was wrong. There should have been a pot on, the aroma of cooking to greet them. He pushed past Allan, Kate, Tuck - she was gone.

Much was there, Meg wasn’t. He stormed across and grabbed the shorter man by the collar, heaving him back against a pole.

“Where is she? What have you done with her?” he shouted in his face.

“Steady on,” Much gurgled, booting Guy’s shin.

“Leave him alone!” Kate grabbed his arm, trying to haul him off.

“Gisborne!”

With a final shove, Guy released Much and stepped back.

“Well?”

Much straightened his jerkin indignantly.

“I told her you’d be like this,” he muttered, eyes full of reproach.

“Who are we missing?” Archer asked curiously.

“His strumpet...”

Guy spun and seized Kate’s arm, towering over her. He was pleased to see her flinch.

“Oi!” Allan took a step forward, afraid he'd strike Kate.

But Guy just leaned in close and said, for her ears alone, “What, are you jealous?”Then he dropped her arm and stepped back, pleased with the effect of his words.

“Why you arrogant, smug, murdering....” spluttered Kate. “....you disgust me. Robin – does he have to be here? Can’t we get rid of him, please?”

“Enough Kate - Much, tell us what happened.”

“Well, she told me she wanted to leave...”

“....so you just took her? With that wound, were you trying to kill her?” Guy growled.

“I tried to talk her out of it, but she said she had to go, that this was her chance. So I found a cart, I made her lie down and rest...”

“...where? Where did you take her?” Guy shouted.

“Maybe home, so her father can find some poor sop to be her suitor,” Kate taunted.

“Gisborne!”

Guy shook free of Robin and rubbed his hands over his face.

“We’ll bring her back,” he heard Robin offer, but the fact that Meg was gone had opened a void in him.

He had to get away, from the curiosity, the hostility, even from the sympathy. He felt as if the rawness of his feelings was laid bare for all to see. Pushing past the outlaws, he reeled out of the camp.

“Wait,” Much called. Guy paused. “She left a message – she said she was giving you a choice. There – I said I’d tell you, and I have.”

Guy walked away, intending to get lost, and when he found that he didn’t know where he was – _that didn’t take long_ – scraped his back down the trunk of an oak to sit at its base. He folded his arms on his knees and dropped his head. His thoughts were as scattered as ash flakes. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He’d tried, once, to send Meg away - for her sake - but acknowledged bitterly that this effort had never been sincere. _Is your life so empty you don’t care if you live or die?_ It had been; would be so again. She’d opened a window into his soul, let light into places shuttered for too long.

But now she’d rejected him. Just like Marian.

No - never like Marian. Stubborn, compassionate, unpredictable....Marian had been like a force of nature, beautiful and cruel in equal measure. She’d been totally unreadable, whereas Meg – a fond smile escaped him – often thoughts crossed her face before her words could keep pace. She was untainted by intrigue; Meg wouldn’t lie to him. _I’m giving him a choice._ Foolish girl, he had no one else.....Guy lifted his head, gazing at the forest floor. _You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?_ For a truth, those images never left him. Her advance across the sun-blistered courtyard, her purposeful steps, the words he almost couldn’t absorb, the white-out in his mind that when he came to his senses...

Twigs crunched. Guy blinked, turning his head. Robin crouched nearby, balancing his bow upright beside him.

“Much means well,” he said.

Guy grunted noncommittally.

“He took her to Rufford Abbey, but he isn’t confident she’ll be safe there.”

“And she is with me?” The words were out before he could stop them.

“You tell me,” said Robin harshly. “Are you better than the Winchesters of this world?”

Guy shuddered. The thought of some lecherous bastard groping his Meg....

“If you’re wondering why she left,” Robin went on, “I had a talk with Kate. Some things were said..."

“What things?”

Robin hesitated.

“You know how women are...”

“I know how Kate is,” Guy said darkly.

“Something about pity, and you two only being together because she had nowhere else to go.”

Guy hauled himself up and paced away. He smacked a fist against a tree, waited until he was calmer before turning to face Robin.

“She saved my life. The wound she took for me’s not fully healed, I’m away a couple of days and that’s the thanks she gets?”

Robin stood.

“We should get going,” he said again. “Don’t be too hard on Kate, she loved her brother.” “Why the hell are you with her?” Guy blurted the words out before he could stop himself.

“Who should I be with, Marian? Well you took care of that, didn’t you?”

The sudden bleakness in the other man’s face stunned Guy. The pain the outlaw always kept carefully concealed had pushed its way to the surface, bubbling over. Robin’s hand clenched his bow, his knuckles white. He struggled to bring his expression back under control.

“I didn’t mean....”

“What, to kill her?” Robin made a strangled sound, a mirthless laugh. “That’s what a sword does Gisborne...”

The mockery stung; Guy’s own control slipped a notch further.

“Don’t be a fool. I didn’t mean to. What she was saying – I just wanted her to stop. I couldn’t think straight. Then it was done... and I couldn’t undo it.” His voice cracked.

“Even so, most people manage not to impale the people they claim to love.”

Incensed at this, Guy lunged, pushing Robin against the oak, his arm pressing against the outlaw’s neck. Robin shoved him backwards. Guy tripped on a root and fell, heavily. Winded, he managed to roll aside, dodging a kick. He grabbed Robin’s leg, upending him, and with a thump the outlaw landed beside him. A fist connected and Guy lashed out, furious - with himself, with the venomous Kate and that idiot Much, with Meg for leaving him, and with Robin for letting him believe that he could belong, for thinking that somehow there could be a road to eventual forgiveness for what he’d done.

He returned the blow. They struggled to their feet, tussling to gain the advantage. Robin kicked a foot from under him and he stumbled; it was all the opening the outlaw needed. He knocked Guy down. The breath whooshed from him as Robin thumped down onto is chest. A fist crashed into his jaw. Guy shook his head slightly, trying to clear his vision. As Hood scrambled to his feet, grabbing Guy’s shirt to haul him up, he wrested free. He shuffled back and then, lifting his legs, kicked Robin back hard against the trunk. The impact dazed him, momentarily. Guy dragged him into a sitting position, the curved dagger appearing in his hand. He held it against Robin’s throat. Time slowed to the beat of the pulse beneath the blade. Seconds passed. Then he flipped it round, pushing the hilt hard up against Robin’s chest.

“Go on. I told you once before, finish it. Sweeter for you, now I actually have something to live for,” he rasped.

“Get off me,” Robin shoved him away. “You know I’m not going to kill you.”

Guy slumped onto his knees amongst the leaves, dropping the blade.

"Then what was all that about?”

“You attacked me, remember?”

“Only because you’re so bloody provoking...”

He paused. It would be so easy to retreat from it, but this thing - Marian's death - it would never go away.

“I’ll leave,” he said, abruptly. “Tonight.”

Robin settled nearby, arms wrapped loosely round his knees.

“There’s no need.”

They sat catching their breath, the silence pulsing with unsaid words. Guy wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.

“You should hate me,” he said eventually.

“I’ve seen hate, Gisborne. I’ve seen what it does.” Robin picked up a handful of leaves, crumbling them and letting the pieces fall. “You know, in some ways we’re not so different, you and I.”

Guy glanced at him dubiously.

“We’ve both done things we regret, things we can’t make up for in a single lifetime, or even two. But it shouldn’t stop us trying.”

“That’s why you don’t kill.”

“You’ve seen me do it. So as I say, not even in two lifetimes.”

“You would have killed me, that time you found the tattoo.”

“Yes, I would have. They stopped me. Marian stopped me.”

“If she hadn’t, she would still be here,” Guy murmured, the irony laid bare. “I wish,” he added, voice hoarse, “that someone had been there to stop me.”

“So do I. But there wasn’t. I was too late.”

Guy glanced at him, saw the bleakness still in Robin’s face.

“You can’t blame yourself?” he asked, incredulous.

“I can play the what-if game as well as anyone,” Robin replied. He hesitated a few moments before confessing: “I should never have let her go back to the castle after Edward’s death. I should have stopped it then.”

Guy snorted.

“You ever try stopping Marian doing something she wanted to do?”

Robin regarded him. He gave a wry smile.

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons she went back. You were another.”

“Keep your pity,” Guy growled. “I’m done fooling myself. She was always yours.”

Robin didn’t deny this; why would he? Guy stood, brushing down; Robin did likewise. They started back towards camp, Guy brooding.

“She would do it to me too,” he heard Robin say quietly.

“Do what?” Guy slowed his pace.

“Rile me so much I'd almost forget how to brace a bow.”

Guy faltered to a stop.

“Robin – I ...”

The outlaw put a hand on his shoulder. Guy could see the persona slip back over him, the mask slot firmly back into place. With it came that once-infuriating grin. Now that he knew what it hid, he wasn’t sure whether to be glad of it or not.

“Don’t go all sentimental on me Gisborne,” Robin was saying. “The others won’t handle it. They already think I’ve gone soft in the head for keeping you around.”

“Maybe you have.”

Then they strode back to camp, their boots a steady tread along the path.


	8. Chapter 8

"There’s someone here to see you, Robin.” Allan met them as they entered the shelter. “We found her wandering in the gully.”

“And you brought her back here?” Robin paused, his quiver already half over his shoulder.  

"She said she has a message. The sender told her to mention Big Bear.”

Little John shifted awkwardly, as all eyes turned his way. He reddened to the roots of his shaggy hair.

“It’s not...?”

“Course not, I’d have said if it were the bleedin’ queen. It’s a nun.”

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” asked Guy.

“Big Bear?” Archer was equally bemused.

“I’ll explain later. Let’s find out what she wants,” Robin said. As he spoke, a slim woman with wisps of red hair escaping her coif paused in conversation with Tuck and rose to greet them. She had washed-out blue eyes, and a pockmarked chin. Guy folded his arms, wondering what business she could have with outlaws. Whatever it was, he was impatient for it to be done; they needed to decide what to do about Meg.

“What brings you here, sister?” asked Robin.

“I’m Sister Hazel. The Archbishop of Canterbury sent me, he’s currently in Nottingham.”

“Ahhh – Hubert....” grinned Robin. “How is he? No doubt he’s up here fetching the ransom, any excuse to be in the saddle rather than his robes, heh?”

“I couldn’t say,” the woman replied primly. “I’m not personally acquainted with His Grace. But he did ask me to give you a message. He wants to meet with you.”

“Why not come himself?”

“He can’t be seen with you. Not when you so recently and inconveniently stole the ransom from him which he’d just collected across half a shire.”

“Whaaa....?” exclaimed Allan.

“Master?”

“You’ve been busy Robin?” wryly, from Tuck.

The nun waited as Robin shushed them. Guy glanced at him, interested to see where this was going.

“You’d better explain. Come and sit down.”

“A deception, obviously,” the slim nun elaborated, seating herself on a log. Robin perched opposite, fingers laced in front of him. “Some days ago His Grace was travelling through Sherwood. As he’s known to you, he believed this assured him safe passage. He was more than mildly surprised, therefore, to be set upon by a gang of outlaws and someone claiming to be you. They took the ransom and disappeared. The flaw in their plan was failing to realise that he would spot an impostor.”

“It reeks of Isabella,” Guy observed.

“It does sound like our dear sister,” put in Archer. “She gets the loot, and blackens you in the process.” “

Quite so,” Sister Hazel agreed. “She’s declared you a traitor, guilty of treason for stealing funds intended to release the king. She’s increased the reward for your capture five-fold.”

Robin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“His Grace is convinced the ransom is being held in Nottingham,” the nun continued. “He thinks the best chance of recovering it is to go along with the fiction, for the moment, that you were the one responsible.”

“What does he suggest?”

“He’d like to meet with you tomorrow, and contrive a plan for its recovery. He’ll leave Nottingham to pay his respects to our prioress. This won’t arouse suspicion. He’ll be waiting for you at the abbey, just after Terce.”

“I’ll be there,” agreed Robin.

                                                   -----------------------------------------------------------

“I’ve heard of you,” said Hubert Walter, eyes narrowed as he looked at Guy. “Vaisey’s henchman.

“Told you,”  muttered Robin.

They’d disagreed. Earlier, Robin had left the gang about their usual tasks, urging them to keep clear of the villages until it could be proved they’d had no part in the ransom theft. John had baulked at this, confident no one would turn them in, but Robin had prevailed. This had left Guy and Archer free to accompany him to Kirklees. Once there, they’d both refused to skulk in the woods. Guy had grumbled something about not being coddled.

“What’s he doing with you?” the Archbishop asked now.

“He’s one of us.” 

“He took a sword to the King, didn’t he? And your lady stopped him. He murdered her, and yet you take him in? I’m not sure what Richard would make of that; not sure how I feel about it. As a crusader, I probably should get my guards in here this minute.” He paused, shrewd blue eyes assessing Guy. “As a holy man though, perhaps I should offer to hear your confession. How would you feel about that?”

Guy knew he was being tested. Archer was regarding him curiously, waiting for his answer.

“You need my sword more than you need my penance.”

“Don’t be so sure of that, Guy of Gisborne. I’ve plenty of men at my disposal; reformed traitors, not so many.”

“The lure of reclaiming the lost and the damned....” Guy almost managed to keep the cynical note from his voice.

“Something like that.” Hubert allowed himself a small smile. He surveyed Guy closely.

“And are you lost, Sir Guy?” he asked quietly.

Guy unclenched a fist he hadn’t been aware he’d formed, flexing his hand.

“I have been,” he admitted.

“As have we all, at some time,” murmured Hubert. “What matters is that we find our way back.”

“This is all well and good, Your Grace,” interrupted Robin, “but it isn’t what you brought us here to discuss.”

“Always the man of action, heh Robin? But just Hubert man, we shared a camp for months. You're right though, we must move on. I see you’ve also fallen foul of the new sheriff, she’s blaming you for the robbery. She’s your sister, Sir Guy?”

“And mine,” put in Archer.

“Hmmm....I don’t suppose you could work that to your advantage? I imagine not, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“The last time Guy saw Isabella, she was presiding over his execution,” said Robin.

Hubert acknowledged this with a frown. He tapped with his fingers on his knee, thinking.

“I don’t know where she’s hidden the ransom. We’ve been at the castle some days now, I’ve had my men search the place discreetly from top to bottom and they’ve found nothing.”

“That means nothing,” Guy said scornfully. “There are so many places she could conceal it.”

“No doubt,” Hubert agreed. “I assume you know them all, so we will put you to good use. But I can tell you now, the strong room was empty. My men checked her quarters, the map room....there were no common areas sealed from use. But it has to be there somewhere. You need to find it, Robin. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how critical it is, for the king, that we retrieve it.”

“With all due respect, Hubert, what the hell were you doing carrying that much loot around with you?”

“I’m not a complete fool – we secure the takings for each shire at a stronghold loyal to Richard. I’m afraid Nottingham would not have been my choice here,” he confessed wryly. “Now Robin, tell me how you plan to get it back. My hands are tied. Until we have proof Isabella’s responsible I can’t do much, and I certainly can’t be seen to be helping you. But if all I hear is true, you’re in and out of that castle as if it’s a tavern?”

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound.” Robin chewed on a chunk of cheese the nuns had supplied, along with figs and a jug of ale.

“Well I can help there. Raff will let you in the servant’s entrance this time” – he nodded to the watchful man with thinning hair standing near the door – “but after that you’re on your own. You’ll need to get word to me of when the attack will be, unless you can tell me now?”

“I’ll talk to the others. Have your man check at the blacksmith’s; when we’re ready, we’ll leave word there.”

“Very well. Good luck, I’m counting on you.”

They stood to leave, Archer grabbing a last handful of food.

“Take the lot man,” urged Hubert. “Don’t they feed you in that forest? And Sir Guy, if ever you change your mind.....the blacker the soul, the greater the reward is upon finding peace.”

“I don’t deserve peace,” he retorted.

“Of course you do. We all do, that’s why it’s called grace. But if you feel you need to earn it then go right ahead, I’d say you’re with the right man to do it.” The Archbishop gave a sly grin. “And you can start by getting my ransom back.”

                                                                --------------------------------------------

“I’m not being funny, but if they’re staying in the castle and they can’t find it, what hope do we have?”

“We have an advantage they don’t; no one knows the castle as well as Gisborne does.”

“Go on, say it – or me....”

“Well, I still think,” said Much, “that it could be in the dungeons. The Archbishop’s men won’t have looked there. Just think about it. There’s no easy way in or out, and it’s a good trap for anyone who’s tempted to get in to try and steal it.”

“Don’t be daft,” scoffed Allan. “Who would hide a fortune five feet away from the folk most likely to nab it?”

“How would they do that? And take it where? They’re in chains, or behind bars, that’s what they do in dungeons in case you’ve forgotten.”

Guy looked up from oiling his sword.

“The pit,” he suggested. “She could have put it where Davina had her snakes."

"Wouldn't Hubert's men have found it?"

"It's covered when not in use, they wouldn't know it was there."

“You might be right,” Robin said thoughtfully. “But is there anywhere else? We can’t be sure, so while some of us look there, are there other places we should check?”

“There’s a panel in the south wall of the war room that opens onto a concealed chamber. Someone might have told Isabella about it.” Guy looked down, smoothing the cloth up and down the blade, hesitating. “There is something she won’t know about, which might help us; another way into the castle. After we got back from the Holy Land, Vaisey had a tunnel built. No one know else knows about it.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Much.

“I was in charge of it.”

“And you killed them, didn’t you?” accused Kate. “The men who built it? I remember, some of the craftsmen from the village went missing around then.”

Guy glanced over; he’d known the hellcat would use any excuse to denounce him. What he couldn’t say to her, to any of them, was that in the haze of those first months following Marian’s death, the deed had barely registered in his grief-addled brain.

“...I don’t like it Robin,” John was saying. “It’s him, it has to be a trap. And we don’t need to take the risk, not when we have another way to get in this time.”

“It isn’t a trap,” Guy snapped, tired of having his loyalty questioned. “It would give us an easy way to split our forces. It starts in a derelict churchyard by the west gate” - he stood, drawing in the dirt with the point of his blade – “cuts underneath the castle and exits here, in the Great Hall. If we’re lucky, we might surprise Isabella. Capturing her would make our job a whole lot easier.”

Robin considered.

“I like it. No, John,” he waved the big man quiet, “I trust Gisborne, so should you. We’ll do it. Tuck, you, Allan and Archer can go with Guy, he’ll show you the way in. The rest of us will meet Raff and enter that way. Get Isabella if you can. We’ll search the war room and you check the pit, we’ll meet you there.”

“If it is in the pit, how do we get it out?” asked Kate.

“Good point. If it’s in chests we won’t, we need sacks and ropes.”

“What about the dungeons then?”

“Last resort Much. Right, let’s get word to Hubert. We’ll go tonight.”

                                                      ------------------------------------------------------

 

The porter led Meg along the north wall of the chapel, past a novice plucking weeds from the path, to the door of a small guest house.

“I can’t persuade you to go to the infirmary?” she asked.

“No – I’d like to try here first.”

“I can assign someone to check in on you, to bring meals and water, but if you need anything else ring the bell. They’ll hear it from the chapel.”

The woman stooped, showing Meg into a room which had a low ceiling, white walls and thick dark beams. A small window let in just enough light to show whether it was night or day. Meg sank onto the bed. It had a straw mattress and a worn blanket, but someone had placed a sprig of dried flowers on the pillow. She was grateful for the luxury of a washstand, with a pitcher and bowl, no matter how basic. A wooden cross hung on the wall, and a previous occupant had left a pair of tattered sandals nudged under the bed.

“Get some rest dear, you look like you need it.”

The porter left. Meg kicked off her own shoes, lay down and slept. It was dark when she woke, disoriented, startled to find someone in the room. But it was only a young woman lighting the candles, and placing a tray beside her on the bed.

“Thank you. I’m Meg.”

The girl tripped on one of Meg’s shoes and muttered something under her breath. She wore a simple smock beneath a stained apron, her thin blonde hair twisted into a wispy braid. Meg wasn’t sure if her expression was sour, or simply an effect of the flickering shadows in the room.

“What’s your name?” She tried again. “You’re not a novice here?”

“Mary. And do I look like a novice?”

_Not the candlelight then._ Mary disappeared with the pitcher and returned minutes later to replace it, before leaving without another word. Meg picked at the food, and then set the tray aside. The place held a deep silence, broken at regular intervals during the day by the bells sounding the hours. Now Meg listened to the soft passage of feet as the nuns made their way to the last of the day’s prayers. The chants and the singing should have been soothing but instead of feeling at peace Meg tossed and turned, chafing to be back in the forest. Memories of her evenings there filled her with such longing that she turned her face into the pillow and wept. The thought tormented her that leaving Guy might have been the most idiotic thing she’d ever done.

Surprisingly, come morning she felt rested enough to find the cloisters. Sitting beneath one of the arches, she wondered how anyone in their right mind could stand to live in such quiet surroundings. Desperate for occupation, Meg found the prioress and was given some embroidery to do. By evening, she knew that if she had ever had any notion of entering a convent, a single day at the abbey would have cured her of the urge.

Following her breakfast next day, Meg walked slowly to the gate that led from the abbey into the orchards. It crossed her mind that not yet being fully recovered she should at least tell someone where she was going. But the thought of one of the nuns insisting that she take a companion, perhaps even the dour Mary, decided her against it.

Her path led past the barns, along a walled, paved alley. Twice she had to stop and lean against one side for support, but if there was one thing she had plenty of it was time, so she rested whenever she needed to and finally came out of a second gate and followed a dirt path down towards the grove ahead. Two sisters moved there amongst the trees, pruning and raking, but they didn’t notice her presence. Off to her right, a cart stood in the lane which led from the village, the driver checking one of the horse’s front hooves for stones.

Meg sank down against an angled plum tree, leaning against it. Drowsy, she closed her eyes, wishing she’d thought to bring her cloak. If the breeze got up any more she would have to....

....rough hands grasped her from behind. Meg’s eyes jolted open as a rag was stuffed into her mouth. Her hands were swiftly bound. She started to struggle, but knew this would tear her wound so she concentrated instead on dislodging the gag. She waited until the burly lout – she recognised him as the driver of the cart – hefted her up into his arms. Then she spat out the rag and screamed for help.

“Shut it,” muttered her captor, “or you’ll find worse shoved in there.”

He emphasised the threat with a vicious pinch that made Meg’s eyes water. He threw a glance over his shoulder, saw the nuns in the orchard straighten and look their way. Quickening to a shuffling run, he reached the cart and bundled Meg into the back. She started to roll out but the thug clambered up and pulled her further in, hauling on the rope that bound her hands. It tightened painfully, and Meg had to shuffle along with it. He looped the end of the rope around the front rail, climbed over her onto the seat, and flicked the reins. They jolted forward.

Meg huddled up against the edge of the cart, her side throbbing. Every bump pulled the rope taut against her wrists until the skin began to rub. She saw the sisters in the orchard hitch up their habits and scurry toward the abbey to raise the alarm. But as the horse picked up its pace, sick with fear, Meg knew that any help would come too late.

                                                           ------------------------------------------------

“This is it,” said Guy, with Allan’s help dislodging the headstone which lay at an angle across the grave.

Tuck passed him the lit torch, and he led the way down the ladder. The passage smelled dank from disuse; moss grew where the walls seeped moisture. Guy swept the torch in an arc, dismissing the fancy that someone lay in wait. He strode to the wall brackets, lifting out the torches and passing them to the others. As each took flame, light bloomed along the corridor. They moved forward. The passage followed a straight path, opening at intervals into chambers where Vaisey had stored weapons and supplies; he’d been thorough in his preparations. Then the corridor turned sharply right and opened into a wide columned space beneath the Great Hall, where the heavy arches supporting it met the ground.

Now vines twisted round the columns, and water dripped from unseen sources. Cobwebs brushed their faces. But Guy remembered it newly-built, recalled following Vaisey through here as he slapped his palm with a glove, declaring the job well done; turning back to face him, his smile beaming malice.

“You got something right for once...well done. So, best you finish it. You know what to do, Gizzy.”

He’d shut the men in and left them. Later, he'd had to move the bodies himself; to enlist help was only to secure another death. He hastened on, uncomfortable that it had bothered him so little at the time. It had been just another task.

“Not far now,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, diminished in the same way as the enclosed air seemed to suck life from the torches.

They reached the steps which led up to the hall. Here they paused, pressing close to the door, listening.

“I hear nothing,” whispered Tuck.

Guy worked the latch, designed to be undetected on the other side. Archer moved up and pushed him aside.

“If the place is full of the sheriff’s boot-lickers they won’t recognise me,” he said.

“Isabella would,” retorted Guy.

Archer ignored him, stepping through the gap and waiting. When they could still hear nothing, he stepped out, leaning up against the high back of the sheriff’s seat. Beyond the dim glow of their torches the hall itself was dark and empty; only the vestibule above was lit. Archer beckoned them forward. They placed their torches in brackets and followed, Guy disappointed that his sister had eluded them. He’d hoped to even the balance, just a little, after their last encounter.

They walked across the hall, heading for the stairs; were almost there when Allan tripped on something. Cursing, he righted himself, just as Guy held up a cautionary hand. Motionless they listened, heard the scrape of boots on stone, voices beneath the arch at the castle entrance.

“All quiet. Haven’t been along the north wall for a while, that’s next.”

“Right. Is Ned off too? Glenn said you three could meet for a drop at the Trip.”

“He should be, last I saw him he...”

The voices moved away. Allan and Tuck crept forward, leading up the stairs. At the top they turned right, passing beneath a stone arch into the corridor leading towards the rendezvous.

Halfway up the stairs, Guy paused.

“Wait,” he said to Archer. “Isabella might not be here, but that door,” - he pointed to the left of the entrance - “goes to her quarters. Why don’t we....”

“No need, brother dear. You want to see me, well here I am.” Isabella stepped into the entrance hall above them, her skirts a swirl of blue velvet. She placed a torch in the bracket beside her. “I knew you’d be back, so I had a warning put in place....you tripped over it just now. And you,” her voice dripped scorn, “I should have known you two would somehow end up together.”

Guy drew his sword. In three long strides he reached the top, Archer at his heels. Isabella neatly sidestepped to allow the guards charging up from the square entrance to the hall. Behind, he saw wavering torchlight as guards rushed from the lower entrances to the Great Hall and began clattering up the stairs. They would soon be surrounded. He flicked a glance at Archer, gave a slight shake of his head. The door taken by Allan and Tuck offered a way out - but if they went that way they’d likely run head-on into them, and endanger the whole gang. He saw Archer understood.

“What are you waiting for? Get them!” Isabella shrieked.

Guy swung to face the attack. The first man up bore a poleaxe. As he lunged Guy parried, and rammed an elbow into his chin; a quick stab across the legs and the guard fell. He blocked the next man’s thrust, and stepping back lifted the torch from its bracket. He threw it at the guard, who fell back screaming and clutching his face. More came. In one swift motion Guy drew his dirk and swept it up across the next man’s chest. He planted his foot square on the wound and shoved him into the guards following behind. Before the singed man could recover Guy stepped back, flipped the dirk over and stabbed his sword arm. He bore his weight in behind the strike, shouldering the man into the wall sconce. The guard crumpled.

Guy looked desperately for Archer. He couldn’t keep this up, knew it was only postponing the inevitable. A glance thrown over his shoulder showed him Archer wrapping a choke-hold round Isabella’s neck and a dagger pushed up against her side.

“Call them off, sister-of-mine,” he purred in her ear.

“Stop,” grated Isabella hoarsely. “Leave them be.”

The guards paused. Guy straightened, but already a figure had sidled up behind Archer from the shadows beneath the archway and laid a blade against his skin where throat met collarbone.

“Not so fast,” gloated the guard.

Isabella shook free. Guy’s arms were seized and he was held fast on both sides. Then someone kicked his feet from under him, and a boot pressed him to the ground. He twisted his head to see. Archer was surrounded. Isabella rubbed her throat, looking from one of them to the other.

“Well, this is interesting. What could bring you both back here, except the whim of that other fool? I suppose you’re all working together?” She strolled close to Archer, until only a hand-span separated them. They locked eyes. “We could fix that, you know. When we last met, you struck me as a man who knew how to fix a bargain. So here’s one for you. Forget about these two idiots and work with me. Help me find Hood and you get your freedom and a bag of coin, enough to see you safely away from here.”

“So you still want to be rid of me?”

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate your.....usefulness...”

“Well, it’s not enough, sister dear...”

“Don’t call me that!” she hissed.

Archer chuckled.

“Suppose I agree, how do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. But if your only other choice is the noose, I’d say it’s worth the gamble. What say you?”

Guy watched Archer deliberate. His face gave nothing away. Had he read him wrong? Guy knew how Isabella loved to manipulate, it fed her sense of power.

“Don’t listen,” he urged. “It’s a game to her, she’ll hang you anyway.”

A boot ground into his back, and he grunted. Archer appeared to make up his mind.

“I think we have a bargain,” he said.

“Good, I knew you’d be sensible. Take this traitor to the dungeon,” she instructed. “And you – you can show me Hood’s camp. I assume you know where it is?”

“I can do better than that.” Guy heard Archer say, as he was dragged away. He struggled to break free, but another savage kick sent him to his knees. “I can take you to him. He should be in the castle right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to anyone following the story: sorry for the delay updating. Have been trying to get a few chapters ahead, but it's not happening at this time of year. Will post again in January.
> 
> Thanks for the support so far!


	9. Chapter Nine

Allan skidded to a stop, looking behind.

“Hey, wait,” he called to Tuck. “They’re not here."

Tuck turned. They retraced their steps until they were close enough to hear the commotion beyond the door. Allan drew his sword, but Tuck reached out and held his arm.

“Wait,” he said quietly. “It sounds like there are too many.”

“We’ve got to help them...”

“And get caught? It doesn’t make sense Allan. No, best that we meet Robin as planned and he will help us get them out once we’ve removed the ransom.”

Allan stood listening, his grip tightening on the hilt. What Tuck said made sense. Moments later, he heard a thud, and then the grunts and clangs ceased. He could hear voices, but not distinguish the words.

“Come on,” said Tuck.

Allan glared at him.

“We should at least take a look. What if they’re injured?”

He shook free and crept up to the heavy door, pushing it open a crack.

“....she’ll hang you anyway,” Guy was saying.

Then he heard Archer’s reply. Allan backed away from the door, furious. He beckoned Tuck with him.

“I knew it,” he muttered, “I knew he’d turn on us.”

“He could be just trying to buy time.” Tuck said fairly. He had heard as well.

“Let’s not wait to find out. We’ll do what you said, we’ll find Robin and he can help rescue Giz.”

They hastened to the meeting room. The high-backed seats where Vaisey’s conspirators had once sat were still placed at intervals around the walls. No one was there. A substantial table sat on a large rug, obscuring the pit from casual observers. Allan hefted an edge experimentally.

“We’ll need help to move it,” he said. “Shouldn’t Robin and the others be here by now?”

“I’d have thought so. We’ll just have to be patient and wait.”

Tuck leaned back against the table, and Allan seated himself in one of the conspirators’ chairs. When he saw Tuck’s eyes on him, he leapt up and began to pace.

“Alright, I know what you’re thinking. Much would say it too.”

“Say what?” Tuck asked mildly.

“That it’s where I belong, the traitor's seat.”

“You still think of yourself that way? Do you doubt your own loyalty?”

“Of course not, but it doesn’t change what I did.”

“From what I hear you made the best of a bad situation; men have done stranger things under torture. I understand you never betrayed the lady Marian. You kept the secret of the camp, and you saved Robin and the others from a fatal trap.”

“I know now why Robin keeps you round, you make me sound like a bleedin’ champion. I wouldn’t let the others hear you talk like that.”

“They already know it, trust me.”

Allan snorted.

“Right – well, let’s test that shall we next time they snipe at me about it.” He paced to the door and looked out onto the silent corridor. “So what do we do now? They should be here.”

“I’ll stay here so we don’t miss them, you check the war room.”

Allan ducked into the deserted hall, keeping close to the wall, listening. He made it undetected to the room dominated by Vaisey’s map table. No one was there. He walked up to the wall and, recalling Guy’s instructions to Robin, worked the mechanism that opened onto the secret chamber. It was empty. Allan stood, deliberating a moment; decided to risk it. Better to be thorough, he would go and check the servants’ entrance, see if perhaps their timing was out and Raff was still waiting there for the gang.

That too, deserted. Worried, Allan made his way back to Tuck.

“Something’s gone wrong, I know it. Maybe they’re all down in the dungeons.”

“Unlikely. But, it does seem like we’re on our own.”

“So what do we do?”

“Leave the castle and find Robin,” said Tuck. “But one of us should stay here.”

“Why? We know where the tunnel is now.”

“Robin might prefer the servants’ entrance, it’s closer.”

“I know the castle better than you, I’ll stay.”

“I think you should go. I can conceal myself easily enough, and if I were to get caught I’m less well known about the place than you. Just show me the way to the entrance. Then make sure that you find him.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Allan. “What could go wrong?”

                                                       ------------------------------------------------------  
  
Guy lay in the near-dark, listening to rats nosing for scraps. The cells stank worse than when he’d last been there. The straw was hardly ever replaced, Guy knew for a fact jailers weren’t too particular about how their prisoners died, whether it was from disease or execution.

He closed his eyes, remembering how impatient and scornful he’d been when Meg had first been brought in. But she’d given it straight back to him until, by some miracle, she had seen something in him worth saving. Of course Isabella had slapped them straight back in the dungeon. But even during that single day and night, while they waited for their execution, there’d been a deeper alchemy at work had he but known it at the time.

It was in this hour of the night when he’d heard Meg sniffling. He’d murmured “Come here – come on.” She’d shuffled over, and leaned the side of her head against the bars. He’d stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, and as he couldn’t offer any more physical comfort had racked his brain for some way to take her mind off it all. She liked to talk, he knew that much, and had suggested she tell him about herself. So he knew she’d lost her mother two years before; that her father was a bully whose grief was of the selfish kind. He knew she liked to ride, and hunt – she’d trained a hawk named Quinn. She hated needlework. Liked to play with the village children, and had badgered the healer to teach her about herb-lore. Had once swum in the river at night, but had paid for this boldness with sheer terror when the clutch of weeds had made her think she might drown. He’d been surprised how soothing these innocent recollections had been to him, as they’d held hands through the bars: a taste of normality, one to hold onto like a talisman for a short time against the world that he inhabited, and the fate that had awaited them.

But when she’d asked about him, Guy had been at a loss. What could he possibly tell her that wouldn’t taint her to hear? There’d been happy times in his childhood, before his father went away, but Meg would want to know, then, what had happened to his parents. Those memories were scars on his soul, and he hadn't been willing to share them with anyone.

Yet even that had changed. Somehow, Meg coming into his life had turned everything on its head. Now he would give anything to get out of there. He tugged futilely at the chains, making the occupant of the next cell stir. Guy glanced over. The man had been brought in not long after him; Guy had thought he looked familiar, but the light had been too poor to be certain.

He settled back, waiting. He was fairly sure he would soon have company, either Robin and the outlaws or, if Archer had been deceiving Isabella, his brother. Another surprise, how much he hoped it would be the latter. Not just for Robin’s sake, but because of the wish he’d foolishly entertained that his sibling might prove to be worth something. At that moment, with his wrists manacled, lying on a bench by a wall seeping moisture, that hope - like all the rest - seemed to mock him.

He didn’t have long to wait. Heavy footfalls on the stairs, curses, weapons scraping the walls, all announced a new arrival before the prisoner came into view. The racket scattered the rodents. The face of the prisoner, as they reached the cell next to him, was hidden in shadow, but Guy saw a dark head of hair and recognised the voice as his brother was shoved inside.

“Mighty fine accommodation,” drawled Archer, regaining his balance. “Do I get a choice of cellmate? Because I’m not sure I’d choose him – he’s too sullen.”

“Keep talking,” the jailer invited. The door closed with a clang. He lingered, resting a spear on the cross-bar. “I’d quite like an excuse to use this.”

Archer wisely stayed silent. The jailer hoicked a gobbet at his feet, then turned and shuffled back along the corridor.

“Well, brother, here we are.”

“I must say, I’m glad to see you.”

“You didn’t really think I’d team up with that treacherous bitch, did you? I’d hoped if one of us stayed free we might have a shot at us all getting out of here.”

“What could you have done?”

“I thought if I took her to the place you and I were supposed to check and she panicked, I’d know the ransom was there and could alert the Archbishop. I knew Robin wouldn’t be there. And if we found the room empty and things got heated I could have claimed they hadn’t arrived yet and taken her to the servants’ entrance, knowing the others would already be safely inside.”

“So that was your plan?” observed Guy.

“All I could come up with at the time.”

“Depended a lot on luck, if your timing was even the slightest bit out....”

“Robin was in no danger,” a voice butted in. “He never made it into the castle.”

They both turned to the prisoner in the next cell.

“Who are you?” quizzed Archer.

“We met at Kirklees, if you remember.”

“Ah – the servant.”

“You’re Raff,” Guy realised at the same time. “So what happened, where are the others?”

Raff shrugged.

“They nearly made it. They’d entered the first door and I was up at the next, ready to let them through, when the guards saw me. I was unpardonably clumsy. I’m afraid I got in their way a bit as they tried to get into the corridor,” Raff said dryly. “The corridor was too narrow for your friends to make quick work of it, and I heard men being sent round the outside to block the exit. They risked being trapped, so Robin chose to retreat. I imagine he was expecting you lot to find a way to get them in.”

“Great plan,” muttered Archer, “relying on us.”

“Not his best,” agreed Guy. “At least Allan and Tuck seem to have stayed out of it.”

Archer gave his chains an exploratory shake, and then wandered the perimeter of the cell, poking at the scraps of bread with his foot.

“You’re supposed to eat that,” Guy observed.

“I’d sooner eat my boot.”

He paced a few more times, periodically kicking the bars with his heel.

“Must you?” grumbled Guy.

“I seem to be making a tour of England’s dungeons. Pity this one has less congenial company than the last.”

“I could say the same.”

Interest perked, Archer crouched down by the bars. There was an amused glint in his eye.

“I heard about that, you and Meg being locked up here. So this was where you met?” He chortled, looking round. “Not many people can claim to have met their lady love in a dungeon. So how did you woo her, with your most charming scowl? Menacing the jailer if he came near?”

“Perhaps offering to share a blanket?” Raff wasn’t beyond a suggestion or two; incarceration was a great equaliser.

“Vermin and all,” Archer laughed, looking at his own with distaste.

“Or his food.”

“Just shut it, both of you,” snapped Guy. He wasn’t about to share how close that was, in fact, to the truth.

“You’re no fun,” grumbled Archer, slumping back.

“Enough jesters down here already.”

Archer moved away from the bars, and sat down on the offending blanket.

“So, what do we do?”

Guy gave him a look.

“Do you mean as in fun?”

“No – I mean, how do we get out of here?”

“Believe me, the options are limited.”

Archer stood and prowled a bit more. Guy bit back a reproof; he’d suffered the same restlessness when they’d brought him in earlier, quite unlike the passive acceptance of last time. But by Archer’s third circuit, his temper was beginning to wear.

“Why are you here?”

“What, in here?”

“I mean, with Robin.” It was something he genuinely wanted to know. “You’ll not get wealth, or status, or any of those things you want so much with someone who gives away everything he can lay his hands on.”

“I’d like to know how he came up with such a crack-brained idea.”

“Ask him. Well?”

Archer stopped pacing. He came back and rested his arms on the cross-bar.

“Doesn’t everybody want those things? Don’t you? You hitched your horse to the wrong cart – can’t say I wasn’t glad to kill that bastard, dunno how you stuck with him. Me, I tried to go it alone, live on my wits and my bow, owe allegiance to no man, that sort of thing.” 

“Which didn’t exactly work out.”

“It might have, until Vaisey. But then I’d have ended up at his beck and call, if I was lucky enough not to find myself at the wrong end of a sword and flung in a ditch when he had no more use for me.”

“You could have just moved on.”

“And gone where? Every trader needs a buyer, every hire sword someone to pay him.” Archer paused. “Do you know, I didn’t even really think about it. That man just needed killing. Then I ended up with you lot. And will I stay?” He shrugged. “Who knows, I seem to have ended up in much the same predicament.”

“It could be a moot point, if we don’t get out of here,” said Guy.

“Someone will come,” put in Raff. They’d forgotten about the archbishop’s servant. “And perhaps that the difference.”

“Perhaps it is,” murmured Archer.

He and Guy exchanged a glance.

“Maybe it is,” agreed Guy.

                                                 ------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Allan had left Tuck retraced their steps, crossing the entrance hall on silent feet. He was fairly certain the arch opposite led to private rooms, a supposition borne out by the presence of guards at the junction of two corridors. Engaged in conversation, they hadn’t seen him. He ducked into an alcove, considering his next move. It wouldn’t do to get caught, not when the others were relying on him, and especially not when he was on an errand unsanctioned by Robin.

However, boldness had served him well in the past; he stepped into view, and strolled down the hall.

“You there, what are you doing?” A spear barred Tuck’s way; a lone sentry, his companion had moved on.

“I’ve business with the archbishop, he summoned me. Where can I find him?”

“What, to his rooms, in the middle of the night?”

“He didn’t know at what hour I might arrive.”

Tuck stood patiently, enduring the scrutiny.

“What business would he have with the likes of you? I thought the church frowned on your lot.”

“His Grace will tell me when I see him,” Tuck said equably.

The guard lifted the mail coif he wore away from his neck, rubbing at the irritated skin beneath. He glared at Tuck, undecided.

“I have something that might help with that.”

Tuck started to reach into the pocket of his robe and felt the spear suddenly prick the base of his throat. He spread his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’ve an ointment that will soothe it for you.”

“Slowly, then.”

Tuck withdrew a small phial and handed it over, glad that his earlier visit to the village meant he had something on hand to offer.

“How do I know it’s what you say it is?”

Sighing, Tuck retrieved the phial. He took some of the paste and spread it across the back of his hand. Mollified, the guard lifted the spear away.

“Go on then,” the man grunted, “it’s that way, third door on the left. But leave that.”

He relieved Tuck of his sceptre and waved him forward. Tuck rapped firmly on the door. Aware of the guard watching, he gave a cursory prayer that the archbishop, who’d never set eyes in him, wouldn’t give him away.

“Come.”

Tuck pushed the door open and went in. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, the chamber was lit only by the fire in the grate and a candle, the flame of which was held mere inches from his face. Once he could see properly, Tuck noticed that in his other hand the archbishop held a sword that was equally close to his person.

“State your business.”

Tuck pointed at the closed door.

“I’m Brother Gerard, from Fountains Abbey.” As he spoke, Tuck shook his head slightly. He reached inside his cowl and withdrew the outlaw tag he wore. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”

After a moment, the archbishop lowered his sword. He motioned Tuck towards the fireplace.

“Of course, forgive me. I’ve had a busy day.”

Tuck crossed the room. He stood by the fire, arms folded, waiting. Hubert perched on the arm of the chair, and gestured Tuck to the footstool.

“Sit down man, you’d better tell me what’s going on. Not your real name I suppose?”

“It was years ago, at the abbey. I’m known as Tuck now.”

“Robin sent you?” 

They kept their voices low.

“Not exactly; Robin doesn’t know I’m here, he hasn’t made it into the castle. Something’s gone wrong. Where’s your servant?”

Hubert rubbed a hand across his face.

“That’s just it, he’s been taken. So if you’ve come to ask for my help, it’s impossible. Your sheriff not only locked him away, she used it as an excuse to remove my troops from the castle. She claimed Raff’s actions not only undermined her authority but cast doubt upon my loyalty to the crown.” The archbishop raised his sword, and with a neat cut swiped the top off two unlit candles on the mantelpiece. “Tripe, of course, but not something I can afford to have bandied about, especially before I’m invested. I take it you’ve not located the ransom?”

“No. We were apprehended and two of our men taken, those you met at Kirklees.”

“Ahhh....the brothers.” Hubert smiled slightly. “And now Isabella has them....no sibling love lost there.”

“No, and I fear for their safety. So there’s nothing you can do?”

“I can’t even get my own man out.” Hubert was brusque. “It’s as I told Robin, until you find the ransom and remove it there’s nothing I can do. Just finding it won’t be enough. Her forces are superior, she would simply move it and deny all knowledge. So until it’s out of her clutches, until I have that proof...do that, and I can keep her off your backs as well. It’s a misdeed I’ll be able to hold nicely over her head. Until then you’re on your own, all of you.”

Tuck rose, ready to leave.

“Wait,” Hubert briefly touched his arm. “What’s your plan now?”

“Allan’s left to find Robin. I’m to wait for their return to let them in.”

“Before you go...”

Hubert sat at the desk and Tuck waited, listening to the scratch of quill on parchment and a log shifting in the grate.

“Take this,” said the archbishop, folding the parchment and pressing his seal on the join. “If anyone challenges you, say you’re taking this message to the abbot. I’m intending to visit him shortly anyway, if I ever get away from this cursed place.”

“Thank you.” Tuck inclined his head and took his leave, tucking the parchment securely into his robe.

                                                      ---------------------------------------------------  
  
As the cart jolted along, Meg struggled to find a position that didn’t hurt. But if she wedged herself against the front, she found this brought her head within inches of the driver. She dragged herself over to the side. It meant extra tension on the ropes, but she preferred to suffer this if it kept her away from the lout.

By mid-morning her wrists were bleeding, her ire faded to resignation. Acutely uncomfortable, she slumped against the headboard, not caring that over the biggest bumps her head knocked against his rump. The last occupants of the cart had clearly been poultry; if anyone had attempted to clean it, their efforts had been indifferent. She gave up looking for somewhere unsoiled to place her limbs; she had bigger concerns.

With plenty of time to think, Meg reflected that her situation could hardly be worse. She had no idea who’d snatched her. She didn’t think it was her father’s doing, she didn’t recognise the man as one of theirs. Isabella would surely have sent guards, and not bothered with secrecy. There was a chance it was a random event, which meant her situation was dire. Guy would have no idea where to look for her, assuming he came at all. If random, her captors would have no idea of her identity. A ransom demand could be delivered to the abbey in the first instance, but Meg didn’t think her dress was enough on its own to give an indication of wealth. And if there were other reasons for her abduction, none of them could be good.

Rousing from these sombre thoughts, Meg looked down at her wound. It throbbed, but thankfully hadn’t bled. A sound caught her attention – another cart approaching! She started to scrabble to her feet, intending to shout, but a hand pushed her roughly back down and the gag was stuffed back in her mouth. This time it was tied, twisting in her hair; tears of pain and frustration slid down her cheeks.

Around midday the driver pulled off the road and, after checking her bonds, disappeared into the trees. When he came back, he gave Meg a long look and then untied the gag. She flexed her stiffened jaw, and tried to work moisture back into her mouth.

“I’m thirsty,” she croaked.

Her abductor unhooked a water-skin from the front of the cart, slugged back a few mouthfuls and then handed it to her. Meg gulped down as much as she could before it was taken away. She moistened her lips, but seeing the man’s eyes on her she stopped.

“Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

“No questions.”

“I need to go. In there.” She pointed into the forest.

The man considered. He had a scraggly beard and close-set eyes; he smelt of onions and ale as he leaned in.

“Come on then my lovely. I’ll take you.”

Meg shrank back. She was suddenly unwilling to trade the openness of the road for a hidden glade, with this oaf hovering at her side.

“No – it’s alright. I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Can you at least lengthen the rope a little and put those sacks down for me to lie on?”

“You think I’m short a few sticks girl? Any more rope and you’d be wrapping it round my neck,” he frowned, climbing back up and flicking the reins. “You can stay where you are.”

Meg found the afternoon worse, regretting her decision, even if it had just been for the chance to stretch her legs. When he stopped again, necessity won over unease. She could hardly get out of the cart, one foot tingled and she ached all over. When she tried to stand her legs gave way. He clamped an arm around her chest to hold her up.

Meg shoved him feebly away.

“Stay there. Where would I go? My hands are bound and I can hardly walk.”

She started hobbling towards the trees; her abductor leaned on the cart and watched. When she returned, she saw the sacks laid out on the cart-tray; he bundled her in, and tied the rope to the side rail. As they set off again, he handed her some bread and an apple. She gobbled it gratefully. The cart trundled on, and Meg curled up on her side. Despite the sackcloth scratching her face, an aching wound, and the sun burning her cheeks, she dozed.

When the cart finally halted, she sat up, blinking and disoriented. It was clear, immediately, that her father had been behind her ordeal. How he’d known she was at Rufford Abbey she’d have to discover later. For now, she had to summon all her reserves and try to exit the cart with dignity. The lout untied her. He stood back, both he and Lord Bennett watching as she attempted to climb down from the cart.

It was clear, too - as soon as her feet touched the ground - that she wasn’t going to make it.

Neither man moved to catch her as she crumpled.  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	10. Chapter 10

In his haste, Allan hadn’t stopped to think that since their aborted attack there might have been a guard posted at the servant’s entrance. He barrelled into the man’s back, surprising them both. Allan had the luckier footing and used the advantage to propel the guard to the ground. Some sense of self-preservation made him glance behind; he dodged the blow from the second guard, rammed a fist into his stomach and another into his face, and then sprinted. In the dark, they’d never catch him.

A couple of quick turns, and he was at Molly’s. She’d told him never to come to the house, after that one time, but sidling up to the door he thought quickly.

A burly, unshaven man wearing nothing but a tunic answered the door. He held a club in his right hand.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

“Need your wife, it’s urgent. The missus is birthing.”

“Right, come in – I’ll fetch her.”

Allan ducked inside.

“Moll, you’re needed,” the husband called. “There’s a babe on the way, chap’s here to fetch you.”

She emerged from a back room, hair tousled, tying her girdle. Frowning, her eyes narrowed. Allan wondered if she’d refuse, but if she did, it would undermine the ruse she used to skip out of the house for other reasons.

“Wait, I’ll get my things.” She was back moments later, carrying a satchel. “What stage is she?”

“I dunno – the stage that makes her yell a lot.” Allan winked.

“Men,” huffed Molly.

She gave her man a peck on the cheek and led Allan outside. He nudged her gently towards the end of the alley.

“I’ll wait here. Tell me if it’s clear.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “I told you, never come here. He’s not stupid.”

“He believed me. Now go on, if he catches us whispering out here he’ll know you’re up to no good.”

With a sour glance, Moll walked to the end of the alley. Allan admired the roll of her hips, thinking of the times he’d delved beneath those long skirts. Moll looked over her shoulder and beckoned him forward.

“I can’t hear anything. Who’s after you?”

“Long story, but look, I need to find Robin. Guess I’ll try the Trip for starters.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to come with you. I can’t go back to Gus, it takes more than five minutes to deliver a babe.”

“I could keep you busy a while,” Allan offered.

Moll pushed his hands away.

“Forget it, I don’t do doorways. Besides, aren’t you on some urgent....”

“Not even for me?” Allan teased.

Molly met his kiss, and his hand went to her bodice. His other was in her hair, pinning her close. She moaned against his mouth; he did love a woman who wasn’t afraid to enjoy it. The torch she held dipped precariously; if they didn’t watch it, they’d set one of them alight in more ways than one.

When she pulled back, her face was as flushed as if they’d already had a tumble.

“Fool – not here. What if he looks outside? Now get going, I’ll say someone met us and the babe had popped already. Will you be safe though?”

“If they haven’t followed me here I should be right. So, what about this then, what about us?” 

Moll smiled.

“Day after tomorrow, the usual place. It has been a while.”

“Too long,” agreed Allan. “You’re sure.....”

Molly gave him a shove.

“Go.”

He reached the Trip, encountering only prowling curs and a couple of green lads tipsy on what was probably their first quart of ale. Opening the door, he pushed through the patrons, scanning for familiar faces. The rest of the gang weren’t there. Confident they’d turn up, Allan grabbed a tankard and made for his usual table. It was occupied. He nodded to two of the men, one blue-eyed with a pointy beard, the other stocky, his face flushed either from heat or too much wine. The ruddy one gave a rueful shrug.

“Your town...it could do with a few more inns,” he said.

“Couldn’t agree more.” Allan leaned against a pole. “Are these your lot?”

He’d picked out the soldiers in the crowd at a glance.

“Some of them. I think others have been denied their accommodations in the castle, if I hear correctly.”

Allan looked more closely, and spotted the archbishop’s crest on one man’s tunic. What was going on? If Isabella had kicked the archbishop’s guard out, did this mean Robin and the others had been captured, that she was onto them? And these men...if they were mercenaries, it could mean a whole lot more trouble if Isabella got them into her clutches.

He took a gulp of ale and was about to question the man nearest him – the one with the crest – when the door opened and Robin and the others slipped inside, pausing by the entrance. As they pushed back their hoods, Allan saw Robin grin and lift a hand in greeting. Not to him, but to the men sitting behind him.

They pushed their way over; Robin placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed.

“Follow my lead,” he said quietly. Then: “Felix, Raoul...what are you doing here?”

The men rose, and Robin clasped each on the arm. The blue-eyed one gave an order, and his companions – all but one - left the table to make way. The outlaws crowded in; John took Allan’s place by the pole, keeping a hand on his staff.

“Isn’t this a little out of your way?” Robin began, once introductions were made and drinks hailed.

“Not at all, Robin of Locksley.”

“Ahhh – so you know. Well, I am also the Earl of Huntingdon.”

“We know that,” put in the one called Raoul. “In fact, we’ve learned quite a lot about you since we parted ways.”

“How?”

“Our squire was talking to the stable-boy,” said Felix. “He was full of excitement that he had seen not only Robin Hood but Guy of Gisborne. He said no one would believe he’d seen the two of you working together. Speaking of which, where is your hot-tempered friend?”

Robin looked Allan’s way.

“Where is Guy?” he asked.

Allan cleared his throat, unsure how much to reveal. He knew these men had helped Robin and Guy out of a tight spot, but also that Robin had thought them diverted from Nottingham.

“Isabella’s got him. We got separated, and the guards got ‘em.”

“Archer too?”

“Not exactly - he told Isabella he’d lead her to you, and it looks like that’s just what he did.”

Robin thought a moment.

“Perhaps, but I’d have expected her to have more men waiting. It seemed more like chance.” He turned back to Felix. “Managed to get himself in trouble again, it seems. But you still haven’t told me, what brings you to Nottingham?”

“Don’t worry – we have no plans to work for your Sheriff.” Felix paused as the girl arrived with goblets and tankards. “But we have heard much about you, Robin of Locksley, since we arrived on English soil. And perhaps, we thought, if we come to Nottingham we will – how do you say – be at the heart of the action for a while.”

“You still have to pay your men.”

“Indeed. But we have a little coin, a little time. Enough to visit friends, _non_?” Felix lifted his goblet and tapped it against Robin’s.

“What will you do about Sir Guy?” put in Raoul.

“Go and get him, I suppose. Where’s Tuck?”

“Stayed behind to let us back in, if you want to go that way,” Allan said, catching Robin’s minute shake of the head just too late.

“There is another way?” Felix asked curiously.

“A tunnel, we only just....” began Much. “Ooomph – what’s that for?”

He glared at Allan.

“I understand,” the captain was saying, his pale eyes fixed on Robin. “Trust is a coin which must be earned. But if we are going to help you – which of course we will - and if I am to risk the lives of my men, then surely it would be better if we were fully informed?”

“There’s no need for you to enter the castle,” replied Robin. “If Isabella’s watching the servants’ entrance, you could keep them busy there while we get inside.”

“But Robin, if we have to get into the dungeon, and we still haven’t found.....”

Allan nudged Much in the ribs.

“I’m just saying, we could use their help,” grumbled Much. “Such a waste, for once we could outnumber the Sheriff’s men.”

“He’s right,” Felix said. “You can use us to draw fire, or smuggle an entire force into the castle to do with whatever you wish.”

“They’re not my men, Count Felix, and I’m not paying you,” Robin replied tersely. “Let me ask you this, would you allow a band of armed men to enter one of your chateau by a secret entrance? Nottingham Castle may be under Prince John’s stewards, but at the end of the day, it’s still King Richard’s. I can’t compromise its security.”

The captain took a swig from his goblet, and dabbed the corners of his mouth. Allan, watching him, made a silent bet he would concede; nothing like an argument of strategy to sway a soldier.

“Very well, we will help you. But in return, you can help us. You are a King’s man and despite your – notoriety – you must have connections which could be of use to us. _Comment_ _on_ _dit..._ an exchange.”

Robin placed his goblet down. He rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped, fixing his eyes on the captain.

“Agreed. Right then, here’s what we will do....”

                                                        -----------------------------------------------

“A bath, miss, that's what you need, a good long soak to see you right. But best you get this down first," Beth said, placing a bowl of soup, a leg of partridge and a chunk of bread in front of Meg.

"Stop fussing woman," snapped Lord Bennett. "What I need is for her to tell me where she's been hiding."

Beth squeezed Meg's shoulder and left the room. Slightly nauseous, Meg gazed at the food, and began tracing with her forefinger a deep scratch on the wooden table. She’d gotten hold of a dagger to play with, when just a wee thing; the hiding she'd received was one of her earliest memories. Nowadays, this habit gave her a distraction during these difficult conversations. Meg sighed. There were so many of them.

Her father's fist thumped the table; Meg jumped. Soup dribbled over the edge of the bowl and seeped between the wooden joins. She swayed a little, holding the edges of the table for support.

"You owe me an explanation." If he noticed her distress, he gave no sign. "Where have you been?"

"Friends took me in, I was quite safe. They looked after me and then brought me here. What else is there to know?"

"I've been looking for you, and no one could tell me anything. All I got were pitying looks, except for Lord Cuthbert. Of course he thought it a great joke. A daughter on the scaffold, rescued by outlaws, rumours flying Guy of Gisborne had carried you off, or else one of Hood's men, or Hood himself. Wait..." her father's eyes narrowed. "Have you been in the forest? If you know where their camp is that might help. That's information we could use to negotiate with the Sheriff."

"Do I look like I've been roughing it?" Meg gestured at her gown, a little the worse for wear but nonetheless mended and largely clean. "Why would Robin Hood care what happened to me, or Guy of Gisborne? Everyone knows they hate each other."

Lord Bennett eyed her shrewdly.

"You're hiding something girl. Now you listen to me." He walked around to stand next to her, grasping her chin and forcing her eyes to meet his. "I don't think you realise your situation. You are under threat of execution. If by some miracle you avoid that fate, you're so tainted now no decent man will ever pay you court again. You are worthless. You've shamed me, you've made our name a laughing stock..."

"That's all you care about, isn't it?" Meg accused.

"If you're lucky, some lord might take you as a mistress...either that or you'll be tupped by some stable boy and end up raising bastards in the village," Lord Bennett went on, his voice rising, eyes cruel. He dropped her chin in disgust.

"If she could see you now, she would be ashamed!”

Meg didn't see it coming, an open-handed slap that snapped her head to one side.

"You little bitch," snarled her father. “Get out of my sight. I don't know why you bothered to come back. As soon as I can find someone to take you, you'll be gone. You disgrace her memory."

Meg shoved away from the table and stumbled upstairs, taking refuge in her room. Gingerly, she wiped the blood from her mouth. Her face stung. Probably a mistake to mention her mother, but at least she had diverted her father's questioning from Guy and Robin. The rest was neither more nor less then she'd expected. Needing fresh air, she crossed to the window and at the second fumble managed to unlatch the shutter. She pushed it open and slumped against the sill. Tears seeped onto her cheek.

Miserably, Meg considered her options. She should leave, immediately, but in her current state it had taken all her energy to mount the stairs. Her father didn’t need to bother with a lock; her weakness was its own prison. But surely this would protect her as well? Until she was stronger, she couldn’t imagine he would send her away. It would give her a few days’ respite, time to heal, enough time for Guy to find her. But in case she was on her own, she would need to have a plan. Beth would help her – Beth could get a message to someone in the village...

....Meg lifted her head and realised she’d fallen asleep. She staggered to the bed and later Beth was there, setting a candle down, helping her into her shift. When had night fallen? Meg slowly wakened, and as Beth moved about the room even in the dim light Meg could tell something was wrong.

“Beth, what is it? What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Never mind, best you get a good night’s sleep. There’s nothing can be done about it anyway.”

“Done about what?” Meg was fully awake now.

“Hush, he’ll hear you. It might be nothing, only it’s unusual.” The maid tucked wayward strands of hair behind her ear.

“Alright, don’t look at me like that. It’s just he sent a rider off with a message not long ago.”

“In the dark? Who to?”

Beth fidgeted with the bed hangings, re-tying a drape that had been perfectly arranged. 

“I didn’t hear for sure, but I think Lord Rede.”

Meg blanched. She knew this man, a friend of her father; he had a fair face, pale eyes and a boisterous laugh. Everyone liked him, but Meg had long ago learned to avoid being caught alone with him.

“Beth, I must get away. Will you help me?”

“I don’t see what we can do, when you can hardly walk.”

“You know what Rede is like. Can you get word to Thomas, maybe he could bring his cart and get me to the village? Then, I have friends...if I can get word to them...”

Beth looked uncertain.

“If your father suspects I’ll lose my place for sure. He knows me and Thomas are to be wed and could make things difficult for him, taking his custom away, and getting others to do the same...”

“Beth please – I’ll make it right - someone else then....”

“Shhh, my lady.” Beth placed a hand on Meg’s where it was compulsively bunching and then smoothing the coverlet, over and over. “We’ll think of something I’ll send word in the morning, and see what can be done. Now try and get some sleep...you’ll never heal if you fret yourself like this.”

Beth blew out the candles and left the room, and Meg lay staring into the dark. What have I done? The answer made sleep impossible: pale, intent eyes, wandering hands, and a slyness others never saw.  


                                                   --------------------------------------------------------

The clash of weapons woke Guy; that and Archer reaching through the bars and shaking him.

“It’s Robin,” he was saying.

As the flickering torches came towards his cell Guy recognised the man leading; it wasn’t Robin.

“Raoul! What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? Rescuing you.”

Raoul waved someone forward with the keys.

“And them,” Guy said, pointing to the cells on either side.

The three of them emerged, rubbing wrists where the chains had chafed. Guy watched the rest of the gang and Felix’s company bundle the subdued guards down the stairs and into the cells. He moved to the stairs and saw Allan, Tuck and Little John arrive on the scene.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Not now. There’s something I gotta tell Robin.” Allan shook himself free of Guy’s grip.

“Tell me,” Guy insisted.

Allan cocked his head, and gave in.

“We can’t find the ransom anywhere, alright? But keep it quiet – Robin doesn’t want our new friends finding out about it, that’s why he sent us off to look while they were busy down here.”

Something he’d noticed suddenly made sense to Guy.

“You get them out of here then. I’ll tell Robin. John, with me – we’ll need your help.”

The big man scowled, but allowed himself to be guided past the commotion to the rear of the dungeon. As the doors clanged shut and the gang and Felix’s men began retreating up the stairs, Guy beckoned Robin over; Archer and Raff lingered, as did Much.

“I know where it is,” he said without preamble.

“You’re welcome,” mocked Robin.

Guy ignored him.

“Look – here.” He pointed to the grate in the centre of the floor; there were marks on the surface of the stone around it. Below was the chamber where the spring had been blocked. “There’s been something heavy dragged across. I reckon Isabella’s found another use for it.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Robin stretched flat on the floor, holding his torch over the opening. “Well, well...it’s there alright; she’s had a platform put in.”

“How would she do that?” asked Much.

“Stop the spring for a while, drain it out again,” Guy said.

“Easy enough, use putlock holes to erect a platform, lower the loot down through the opening,” put in Archer.

“So I was right all along,” crowed Much. “It was in the dungeons!”

“Right, let’s get to work. We need to get it out.”

They lowered Much onto the platform and, using a system of net and ropes, had the ransom removed within the hour. Leaving Much with the remaining bags, they lugged what they could up the stairs. Guy, carrying two sacks, hoisted them up to get a better grip, and stumbled straight into Archer.

“Why’d you stop?” he grumbled.

“We have company.”

Raising his head, Guy saw Felix blocking the corridor, his men arrayed behind him. They were all armed.

“Robin.” The Count dipped his head in greeting.

“Count Felix. I thought you’d left, we were to meet you at the Trip.”

Robin dropped his sacks at his feet and straightened; Guy did likewise. No one had moved, but instinct warned him to have his hands free.

“We preferred not to start without you. But I see you had an agenda of your own.”

“Not mine, Felix. I’m working for the Archbishop. Isabella stole the taxes intended to free Richard and we’re getting them back to him.”

“A worthy goal, _certainement_.”

The captain strolled forward, lazily drawing his sword. Guy had his own half drawn, but Robin held out a hand to stop him. Felix halted a pace from Robin. He reached out and with the tip of the blade slit the neck of the bag to reveal the dull gleam of gold.

“I suppose more where this came from? Enough, then, to keep a company such as mine for several months.”

“You know we can’t allow that.”

While Robin parried words with the Count, Guy marked Raoul. The stocky second-in-command met his gaze, a hand resting casually on his sword-hilt. Guy wondered what Robin was doing. They were outnumbered, was he stalling until the rest of the gang could arrive? This was a dispute no arm-wrestle would solve. A pity, he’d enjoyed working with these men. It just proved again that you couldn’t trust...

“... _allez_.”

Guy glanced over his shoulder. The Count had sheathed his sword and was dismissing his men. Puzzled, he looked at Robin, who just smirked slightly. The mercenaries, weapons undrawn, withdrew. Raoul mouthed what looked like a warning to him.

“You will admit, Robin Hood, that I could have taken this treasure from you with barely a scratch to my men?” Felix was saying. Then, leaning in close to Robin, Guy heard him whisper: “Be ready.”

A commotion from the corridor, the clash of steel, grunts and shouts – Guy plunged forward, saw Raoul battling one of his own company. Men had fallen, the ground was sticky with blood, and Guy couldn’t tell friend from foe. Nor, it seemed, could Raoul.

“Fall back,” shouted Guy. “To us.”

The lieutenant heard, adjusted his footing so that he could retreat toward the head of the stairwell where Felix, Robin, Archer and Raff now surged forward, creating a line which Guy saw some of the Count’s men mimicked at the further end of the corridor, trapping a knot of men in the middle who battled fiercely to escape. Soon they were subdued, bound, and shoved roughly down the stairs to the cells.

Felix wiped his sword on a dead man’s tunic.

“Edouard – of course,” he murmured, with a grimace of distaste.

He glanced over the other three corpses, then looked to Robin.

“None of you are injured? I apologise for involving you, but this was the best way. Asking a man to turn his back on a king’s ransom was a test certain to expose the traitors. So now – we will help you take it to the Archbishop.”

But as the Count stepped toward the first sack Robin blocked his way.

“We can manage,” he said.

Felix straightened, fingering his beard.

“I see you are not a man who will trust easily. Well – I have something to tell you. Perhaps this will convince you, if I tell you that I had one of my men follow you to the castle. I know where this other entrance is that you wished to keep secret.”

“I know,” Robin said. “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

“So now, you see, you have a choice. You must trust me, or you must silence me. Here and now.”

“Do I have a say in this?” Guy swung round, recognising the voice of the archbishop. He strode toward them along the corridor, a sword at his hip. “I see you have both Raff and my ransom. Good. Then get it out of here, will you? It’ll be safer in the forest than anywhere near that conniving sheriff of yours. And Raff – go and bring my men back. It’s time we had a little chat with Isabella.”

He turned from Raff to regard Robin.

“But I interrupted your....discussion...with the good Count here. Discovered one of your secrets, has he?”

“Only a problem if he’d kept it to himself,” said Robin.

“So he passed that test, hmmm?” Hubert regarded Felix thoughtfully. Then: “I could use a company of trained men. This whole debacle has shown I don’t have the numbers I need should we come under attack again. But can you and your men be trusted?”

“We’ve cut out the canker.” Felix gestured to the corpses. “The rest are loyal. You hire us and we will do the job you pay us to do. We are no threat to your ransom.”

“Very well,” Hubert decided. “I’ll draw up the contract tomorrow. In the meantime, Sir Guy, we have something to discuss - if he can be spared?” Robin shrugged.

Thus a short time later he was seated in the archbishop’s chamber, staring into a goblet of spiced wine, as he considered the man’s offer.

“Think about it,” Hubert was saying. “You’ve tried to kill the king on two separate occasions.” Guy glanced up sharply; _did_ _everyone_ _know_ _that_? “Granted you’re with Robin now, which will earn you some credence, but is it enough? If you come with us, help guard the ransom across Yorkshire – the work of a few weeks, a month maybe – it will give me the chance to vouch for you as well when Richard returns.”

“You’re confident he will, then?”

“He’ll make it home.” Hubert grinned slightly. “If the Lord doesn’t see to it, then Queen Eleanor will. So.......?”

“Why would you do take me on?” asked Guy.

“You said it yourself, at the abbey. _The_ _lost and the damned_ – or shall we say, those who need to be saved? And it turns out I could use your sword after all.”

Guy grunted.

“Where are you headed next?”

“Yorkshire, then we’ll....”

“The Sheriff of York sentenced me to hang.”

“Is there anywhere you’re not a wanted man?” grumbled Hubert. “No matter, we can keep you out of the way. If you want to think about it, you can tell me when I collect the ransom, which will be in a couple of days. If he’s interested, you can bring that brother of yours. I’m sure he’d be useful.”

“Archer?” Guy looked up in surprise.

“I hear he has talents. And it would give him something to do besides getting in Robin’s way, he strikes me as a restless one. So then – I’ll wait for your answer, Sir Guy. Two days. I’ll see you in Sherwood.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, have changed the rating with later chapters in mind, just in case.


	11. Chapter 11

They waited in the chapter house. Robin lounged back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle. Archer fiddled with the scrolls in the recessed cupboards, selecting items at random and taking them out to peruse. Guy stood at the window, hands braced on the sloping sill, his unease growing the longer they waited.

“What’s taking so long?” 

Archer let a scroll flip closed and slid it back into its socket.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to see you,” he said. “Now that she’s here, perhaps she prefers the peace and quiet to sitting round in the forest with you lot for company.”

“Not helpful,” muttered Robin.

Guy ignored Archer, gave Robin a searching glance. He seemed on edge too.

“You think something’s wrong? That’s why you came.”

Robin shrugged.

“It’s not Kirklees, but someone could still have had it watched. We’ll know soon enough.” He nodded towards the door.

“If that’s what you thought, then we should have been here sooner.”

Robin bridled.

“There was a small matter of getting you out of a dungeon, remember?”

“Well, we shouldn’t.....”

“Gentlemen.” Archer cleared his throat.

The abbess had entered, a diminutive woman accompanied by another sister. As she approached her hands were clasped demurely at her waist, but there was nothing diffident in her gaze, or in the sternness of her tone. 

“You’re looking for the young woman? Well, you’ve had a wasted journey. She isn’t here.”

“Mother Superior – do you recognise me?”

“Of course I know you, Robin of Locksley. I also recognise this one,” she nodded towards Guy, “and I can tell you, if she were here, I would think twice before disclosing it in front of _him_."

“He’s one of us.”

“Where is she?” Guy demanded, striding towards the abbess. “What’s happened?”

She gazed up at him calmly.

“There was an incident yesterday morning. She went down to the orchard without telling anyone, and was snatched by someone of whose identity” – she held up a hand, forestalling the obvious question – “we have no idea. It was sheer luck Sister Fay here was working amongst the trees at the time, or we might not have realised until much later that she was gone.”

“You take that little care for those who come for refuge?”

“Many come to us for shelter, Sir Guy, and they come for many reasons,” the abbess reprimanded. “We were not told of any particular threat to this young lady. And even if we were, we only offer sanctuary, the defence of faith. The Lord is our strength and our high tower. We do not live by the sword.”

“Enough woman,” he snapped. “I didn’t come here for...”

“Sister...” – Guy felt a cautioning hand on his arm - “can you tell us anything about the man? What he was wearing, the direction he took, whether he was a local....anything?”

“I’m sorry Robin,” said Sister Fay. “We weren’t close enough to recognise him, or to go to her aid. All we could do was raise the alarm, and of course by that time they were gone. He had a farmer’s cart, and he wore rough clothes...I think he had a beard...I’m sorry, I know this really isn’t much help. But they did follow the track toward the highway.”

“Did he hurt her?” The words almost stuck in Guy’s throat.

“I don’t think so,” the nun replied gently, facing him. “As far as I could see, he simply carried her to the cart and....well, I think he bound her, but....”

Guy couldn’t stifle a groan. Robin’s grip tightened in sympathy, before releasing him.

“And this was yesterday morning you say? How early?”

“Not long after Terce. No one knew she was going down there. The sisters had offered....”

“Let’s go,” interrupted Guy. “We’re wasting time. Her father will have her, or Isabella.”

He strode from the chapter house, vaguely aware the others followed, Robin apologising over his shoulder for their rudeness. Guy sneered. _How noble, sharing the blame._ He knew he hadn’t behaved very well, but what did they expect? Meg had been relying on him, leaving that message with Much, and he’d failed her. His delay meant she was – where exactly? He ran a hand distractedly across his forehead. It was only a guess that her father was behind the abduction; she could be anywhere.  
But it was a place to start. He swung up into the saddle; pulled back at Robin’s shout.

“Guy, wait.”

Robin ducked back inside, reappearing moments later.

“Come on, to Cratley first, and the manor. We need fresh mounts. The reeve there is going to Nottingham in a few days, he’ll bring our horses and return these.”

They spurred forward. Dust kicked up from three sets of hooves as they charged along the track towards the King’s Highway like men pursued.

                                                        --------------------------------------------------

 

Meg stayed in bed the next morning, declaring to herself that she’d rather starve than sit through another meal with her father, but to her surprise Beth brought a tray up to the room. She placed it on the bed beside her and then opened the shutters, allowing in the crisp morning air.

“I didn’t think he’d allow this,” Meg said, round a mouthful of broth-soaked bread.

“He’s in quite a good mood this morning.” Beth wouldn’t meet her eyes; she lifted the pitcher from the washstand and started to leave. Meg eyed her closely.

“What is it Beth? What aren’t you telling me? If he’s in a good mood...oh...he’s heard back from Lord Rede, hasn’t he?”

“He’ll be here this afternoon,” the maid said miserably.

“Then you must get word to Thomas straight away. Please Beth. If you won’t help me, I’ll....I’ll....”

“Calm down, my lady. I’ll do what I can. Thomas is right sensible, he’ll know what if anything can be done. In the meantime, you just rest. Don’t go doing anything rash, or come time to get you away you’ll be in no state to go.”

“But if he’s coming here, today...what if he wants to take me away?”

“Then you must plead injury,” Beth said firmly. “Say that after yesterday’s rough handling, any more travelling will just about kill you. By the looks, it wouldn’t be far from the truth. No – you do nothing. I’ll get word to Thom and we’ll wait and see what he suggests.”

So Meg waited: bored, irritable, and too restless to sleep. Mid-morning her father came upstairs to apprise her of arrangements; she turned her face away, unwilling to waste her breath. Her father only saw Rede’s public face, she could never dissuade him.

“He’s better than you deserve,” Lord Bennett snapped as he slammed out of the room.

Midday came and went with a whispered caution from Beth that she’d heard nothing yet. As the afternoon sun splayed across the floorboards, Meg felt sick with fear. Her shift stuck to her skin. The only other time she’d felt this helpless had been in the dungeon, but there, she'd had Guy. She remembered the deep, comforting timbre of his voice; tenderly stroking her face, he’d coaxed out stories of her uneventful life...and been evasive about his own. She’d never learn now, had lost her chance. Tears seeped down her cheeks. _What was I thinking_? Letting a few hateful words drive her away had been beyond foolish.

As the afternoon wore on and there was no sign of Rede, she began to hope that maybe he wasn’t coming after all. But as the light began to mellow she heard a horseman ride up. She felt a wash of panic, and wiped clammy palms on the sheet. Within moments Beth appeared.

“Get dressed, my lady. He’s here.”

“On horseback?”

“He has a carriage, but an axle broke some way back. He’s left it at the village for repair.”

Meg sat, immobile, watching as Beth fussed around the room gathering up clothes.

“You must come down, my lady. I’m sure you don’t want them coming up here, seeing you like this?”

“No, of course not.” The thought galvanised Meg, and she allowed Beth to help her dress.

The stairs were a challenge. When she was near the bottom Rede, with a solicitous smile, came to assist her. She caught a whiff of nutmeg from a pouch at his belt that didn’t quite mask his staleness. As soon as she had her balance, she pushed aside the hand at her waist. She resented the presumption.

“I can manage, thank you.”

Lord Bennett scowled, but said nothing.

“Have a seat, Rede, and something to wash away the dust. Now, what happened to your carriage?”

Beth bustled in, bearing a tray with a pitcher and goblets. She set it down and poured the wine; Rede took his with a smile and a nod. Meg listened as he recounted the accident.

“....I’d have still been there if the lad hadn’t come by and hauled me out. Look at this,” he gestured to a rip in his sleeve, “bloody thorns – apologies, Lady Meg – but my tailor’s going to have worse to say, I’ve only had it a week. I suppose I’m lucky I got through the forest without worse. My driver thought he heard something, it’s a stretch of road I’d have thought safe but....”

Meg watched him, marvelling at how his charm and easy manner hid what she knew him to be _. So false_. Outwardly, even she wouldn’t suspect him capable of it: cornering a maiden in a stable, whispering in her ear indecencies which even now it made her blush to recall. Rede’s eyes had fixed on hers, and when he’d grabbed her, intending to act on them, she’d been too shocked to react; had stood frozen, only saved by one of the stable-boys returning. Rede had withdrawn; Meg heard the boy being dismissed – so genially - but the distraction had given her chance to slip away.

After that she’d been very, very careful.

She’d agonised that her reaction, or lack thereof, might have been taken for encouragement. A couple of years later, he found her alone in the meadow. Even bolder, then, and she’d been truly afraid. But if her passivity in the stable had misled him, this time it let her get in one savage, unexpected kick. That, and the fact she was a better horsewoman than he knew, had allowed her to get away. 

“....so - I imagine my letter was a surprise to you?” Her father’s question brought Meg back to the moment.

“A pleasant one, I must say. I heard your daughter is hard to please where suitors are concerned,” Rede laughed.

“I’ll not wed him,” said Meg flatly.

She wished she could smack the indulgent look from the bastard’s face.

“She has been permitted a choice, in the past.” There was no shred of indulgence in Lord Bennett’s expression. “But her behaviour has cost her that right. She’ll marry where I say now.”

“You can’t make me marry him.”

“Don’t be so sure, girl.” Her father turned to Lord Rede. “It’s late, and with your carriage out of action we can save you the ride back to Nottingham. Spend the night here. I’ll have a room prepared.”

“I don’t know, Archie. Perhaps I should return home and let you sort this out. I don’t want an unwilling bride.”

“Nonsense Rede, she’ll come round. For now, she can rest more, get over that injury. Help her upstairs, girl.”

“I suppose I can stay. But if we can’t reach an accord, if she’s doesn’t want this match, I won’t force it.”

Meg leaned on Beth for support as they mounted the stairs. She heard Rede say behind them that he would tend to his horse; her father followed him out.

“Beth – get a pallet and bring it up. I want you to sleep in here tonight.”

“Of course.”

“And nothing from Thomas yet?” she asked, desperately.

Beth shook her head. They heard footfalls on the stairs, followed by Lord Bennett. Meg straightened defensively, but her father stood just inside the door, giving her a long, considering look.

“I truly don’t understand you,” he said at length. “What do you expect to do with your life, if not to marry? And yet no one’s good enough. What’s the matter with Rede? He’s been a good friend to me. He’s a good match.”

“Do you really want to know? You call him friend, but twice he’s tried to force me. If that’s all your friendship means to him...”

Her father shook his head.

“If that were true you’d have told us before now,” he snapped. “So, keep your poison to yourself. And you will be civil to him, or so help me I’ll go down and wring the neck of that bird you love so much.”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But it’s true.”

“Enough. You will be civil to him,” Lord Bennett repeated. “And we shall eat supper together tonight. After all, you’d better get used to it. The man’s going to be your husband, whether you like it or not.”

But he was back before long with news that chilled Meg’s heart.

“He’s left. I’d planned to confront him, but I didn’t get the chance. He said he feels uncomfortable, that he doesn’t want any part in a betrothal if you’re not willing.”

“It’s a ruse, don’t you see? He’ll say that until finally, oh so reluctantly, he 'll let you persuade him.”

“It doesn’t lend much support to your story though, does it?” He gestured wearily to Beth’s pallet. “You expect him to come sneaking in here during the night, and instead he’s gone? No, Meg, it doesn’t ring true. Rede will be staying in Nottingham, I’m going to send word and get him back here tomorrow. And then you _will_ accept him.”  


                                                     ------------------------------------------------

  
Robin drew rein in a quiet stretch of woodland halfway to Nottingham. Guy and Archer slowed to a walk alongside him.

“Five minutes. Need to stretch my legs.”

Robin swung down and walked into the trees. Guy dismounted, and let his horse graze. He walked off to the side and leaned back against a trunk, tilting his head to look at the sky. In the blackest of moods, he closed his eyes, shutting everything out.

“She must be something.”

“What?”

Guy opened his eyes. If Archer was needling him now, consumed as he was with worry for Meg...

“You heard.” Archer sauntered across and leaned against a neighbouring tree. He gazed along the road. “She must be something, for you to care this much. I can’t imagine it. Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘em, but take Marian for example - " "Let's not," warned Guy. " - for a woman to have such a hold as she did over both of you? Robin hides it well, but I’ve heard enough...”

“From Allan, I suppose?”

“He’s a talkative one, especially in his cups.”

“I’ll kill him,” Guy grumbled.

“He means no harm. It’s not gossip, just the right question here and there....”

“....why would you care anyway?”

“Curiosity, mostly. And I knew you’d never tell me.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t.”

Guy pushed away from the tree and walked to the edge of the wood. He looked down over the grazing lands they would pass through next, cloud shadows chasing across the heath. At this rate, they’d not reach the Bennett estate before nightfall. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Archer said at his elbow.

The next time they stopped it was on the ridge a half-mile distant from Nottingham. Fields sloped toward the town, honey-gold in the evening light; they could see the distant figures of sentries patrolling the ramparts. Dismounting, Guy removed his gloves, flexing his fingers.

“Archer, find the gang and tell them what’s happened, then come to the estate,” said Robin, swinging down.

“You think we’ll need their help?” asked Guy.

“They’ll come anyway.”

“Bring a cart,” Guy added.

The Bennett estate was to the east; Guy spurred his horse faster as they drew near. Now they were close, his urgency grew; he needed to know Meg was safe. Cresting a rise, they saw a lone rider approach. In the fading light, beneath the trees they wouldn’t have been seen; Robin urged them off the road. As the rider cantered past, Guy glimpsed a head of fair hair and the garb of a nobleman. A fine cloak billowed behind him.

When the manor holdings came into view, they dismounted and moved cautiously, keeping out of sight of the serfs who were shouldering their tools and returning home. Tying their mounts to a tree, they slipped through a hedge and crept to the rear of the nearest barn. Through the wall they listened to two stable-hands bicker over a cock-fight wager. A maid emptied a pail of slops, and then came toward the lean-to against the barn to collect eggs.

“Too many people,” murmured Guy. “We need a plan.”

“We don’t even know for sure that she’s there.”

“She’s there alright – that rider....her father’s not wasting any time.”

“Good point.” Robin considered. “Well, we can’t go in through a window, she’d never be able to climb out.”

“You go in,” Guy decided. “Find her room, tell her I’ll be waiting in the chapel. We’ll get her out and then hide in the barn until the others arrive.”

“As good a plan as any, I suppose. Let’s get out of here then, if we’re caught lurking it'll be over before we’ve begun.”

They stole back to a hollow near the horses and lay concealed, waiting for nightfall.


	12. Chapter 12

That evening, Meg pleaded fatigue and kept to her room. The arguments, the nervous waiting, her dismal prospects, the physical strain....drained, she had fallen asleep clothed, and woken to find the room dark. She wondered why Beth hadn’t come; perhaps, seeing her exhaustion, the maid had left her to sleep as a kindness.

The room was stuffy. Needing air Meg sat up, groggily, and stumbled to the window. _Couldn’t_ _Beth have left just one candle?_ She unlatched the shutter and opened it.

"Are we really so bad you had to run away?" came a disembodied voice.

Meg startled, bumping her head.

"Ow."

"Shhh." As her eyes adjusted, she saw Robin on the roof of the storeroom, just inches from her window. He put a finger to his lips.

Relief flooded Meg, but she craned to see past him. The outlaw was alone. As she sagged with disappointment, Robin sprang onto the sill and grabbed her elbow. He swung into the room, supporting her back to the bed.

“He hasn’t come,” Meg whispered, suppressing tears.

“Is that any way to greet your rescuer?” Robin teased, smiling. The look he gave from beneath his fringe was gentle. “He’s here; he’s waiting in the chapel.”

Robin went to the door and listened. He took a candle from her bedside table and, opening the door a crack, he lit it from the rush-light on the landing. Returning to the bed, he examined her face in the dim glow.

“Just as well he’s not here. If he saw this” – Robin gestured to her cut lip, his face grim – “I’d be holding him back, instead of getting you away.”

“I can’t go out the window,” despaired Meg.

“No, but can you get to the chapel? If your father sees you, surely he won’t object to prayers?”

“He’s given me plenty of reasons to pray,” Meg said bitterly. “He might think it an odd time,” she went on, “but yes, I can do that.”

“Good. Will I help you part-way down?”

“No, we can’t risk you being seen.”

It was hard to favour her injury and try not to hurry, knowing Guy waited nearby. Her side ached. She’d checked it that afternoon, concerned. The skin had puckered, but the area seemed clean and undisturbed. That it hadn’t torn again was testament to Tuck’s precise care with bandages and ointments during those first days at the camp.

On the fifth stair she had to rest; as she wilted against the rail, her father strolled from the hall and looked up.

“Where are you going?”

“To prayer.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“It might help. But I don’t know where Beth is. Could you send her to me, if you see her?”

Her father avoided her eyes. Meg guessed then; he’d sent her away. She didn’t even bother with the accusation, just asked him why.

“You won’t need her where you’re going, Rede will have his own staff.”

“Not a lady’s maid,” Meg protested hotly. “Why ever would he have a maid?”

“Then he can get one from the village, plenty of girls need the work.”

“It’s just an excuse then. You sent her away because she’s my friend.”

“A servant,” Lord Bennett said coldly. “And yes, if you must know, I decided you’d be less likely to cause mischief if I removed your ally.”

“Where did you send her? I need to know she’s alright.”

“She still has employment, that’s all you need to know. But whether or not that continues depends upon your co-operation where Lord Rede’s concerned.”

Meg rallied, and continued her descent.

“Even after what I told you?” she hissed, voice rising until she was shouting. “Marrying me off to a lecher isn’t enough? You don’t even allow the possibility I’m telling the truth? You remove the one person I could have relied on for comfort and familiarity, while in a strange house and a loathsome bed?”

“Grow up, girl, and give the man a chance.” Her father advanced. “You had the opportunity to choose.”

“And if you were told to decide between a lame horse and a vicious one you’d do it, would you?” she snapped.

Lord Bennett’s hand twitched as if he might strike her again. At the same time Meg noticed movement in the shadows by the chapel. It recalled her; she didn’t want either Guy or Robin put at any further at risk on her account.

“Well it’s done,” she said sullenly. “And you’ll be rid of me. I’d like to pray now, if you don’t mind.”

She pushed feebly past, hoping he wouldn’t suspect this sudden retreat. As long as he didn’t follow her; she steeled herself not to look back until she reached the chapel, listening. The stair creaked; she risked a glance, saw him going up to bed, thinking he’d won no doubt. _Stay out of sight Robin_. Into the chapel, dark there; she’d been too distracted to grab a candle. Her gown whispered across the floor. She _felt_ his presence, her breath hitched and then strong arms were about her, lips murmuring endearments against her hair. The sudden swoop of joy, so intense! The relief... _he’s here_. She could think nothing else. Guy lifted her, carrying her to the bench. No candles, no light at all, and she wanted to see him. She ran her hands over his face, then buried her hands in his hair which must have seemed an invitation - of course it was - because his lips stroked hers, sweet and tender at first, then he crushed her against him and her breath was lost in the deepest, most stirring kiss she had ever known.

Too soon he pulled back, feathering kisses across her forehead, her closed eyes. He held her against his chest, and Meg drank in his familiar, comforting presence.

“We have to get out,” she whispered urgently, coming to her senses, though she wished they could stay exactly where they were, just the two of them in the quiet dark of the tiny chapel with its tiled walls and its plain wooden cross on the wall above the altar.

Guy lifted her up again. Shouldering open the outer door, he carried her outside. They passed safely through the inner gate and were heading for one of the barns when Meg gave his sleeve a tug.

“No – that one, please. I need to get Quinn.”

There was no way she’d leave her hawk at her father’s mercy.

“What?” Any other time, Meg would have laughed at his puzzlement.

“My hawk, remember?”

Guy hesitated, then moved forward, continuing toward the same barn.

“Guy – please...” She was on the verge of tears.

“No. Robin’s meeting us, we’re waiting for a cart. Stay with him, I’ll go.”

“I have to do it. He’ll bate if anyone else tries to take him, it’ll distress him.”

“This is foolish, Meg. You want to risk everything for a damn bird?”

“Please. This matters.”

Guy stopped, hesitating. He relented, changing direction, and waited almost patiently while she donned a glove and fetched Quinn. The strangeness of the hour unsettled the hawk. It took her several tries to get him from the perch, and then of course she had to walk with him. Halfway across the yard she slumped down, spent. Quinn, though hooded, sensed Guy’s presence, beating his wings furiously at the furthest reach of the leash.

Guy crouched beside her.

“Meg...this isn’t going to work. Just let him go.” The hawk’s agitation increased; Guy cursed quietly as a talon snagged his sleeve. “Please.”

“He can’t hunt at night.”

“He’ll hole up in a tree and in the morning he’ll be away. A few hours up there won’t hurt him,” Meg saw the silhouette Guy indicated, “and he can hunt at dawn.”

She tried to soothe the bird, but Quinn had never been a pet. Guy was right – the commotion would alert someone, and it would all have been for nothing. At least this way she wouldn’t have the image of her beautiful boy tossed lifeless on some midden.

“Can you help me up?” she whispered.

“What’s going on?” Robin asked, appearing beside them. “Really, a bird? You want to bring anything else Gisborne, a donkey maybe?”

“Just shut up,” snapped Meg, tears wetting her cheeks. “I’m letting him go. If you both stand back, he’ll be easier to manage.”

She stumbled to the fence and got Quinn onto a pole, crooning all the while. Back on something resembling a perch, the bird seemed to settle, but Meg knew he’d bate again any moment. She struggled to untie the jesses and when the bird lurched out of her grasp she cried out, thinking it too soon, but as the hawk launched the jesses dangled free in her fingers. She’d done it. Guy scooped her up and they stumbled for cover. She couldn’t see, couldn’t check that Quinn was alright or see the angle of his flight. He was gone.

They hid in the barn, tensed for an alarm, but the night grew still and quiet. Guy sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. She rested between his legs, his arms about her. An owl hooted nearby, and branches grazed the roof. Now and again, tears seeped from her closed eyes. Once, a thumb gently wiped them away.

“Shhh, sweetheart – we’ll train you another.” 

Soothed by his voice, and lost in thought – did this promise imply more than it said? - she didn’t hear Allan approach. But when next she opened her eyes he was there, speaking quietly to Robin.

“The cart’s up the lane, squeaks too much to come closer. Can we get her there?”

“Meg, are you awake?” She felt Guy’s breath warm on her cheek. “Will it hurt to move again, if I carry you?”

“No, I’ll be fine if I’m not walking.”

With clouds obscuring the fledgling moon, they stole out of the estate. Meg didn’t look back; there was nothing there she was sorry to leave. Except...

“Guy... what about Beth? I don’t know what’s happened to her.”

“We’ll ask around the village and find out where she’s gone,” Robin said from her other side. “We’ll make sure she’s alright.”

By the time they reached the cart, she was exhausted, but not so much that she wasn’t touched by the efforts the outlaws had made to prepare the cart. Blankets and pillows were heaped in a nest – such a contrast to her last journey. As Guy set her down, Little John surprised her with a hug.

“You had us worried, lass. Don’t be doing that again.”

“Here,” Robin said, holding out a hand for Guy’s reins.

Guy nodded, climbing into the cart after her. It lumbered forward. Guy settled beside her and, taking care not to press on her wound, pulled a blanket over them. He settled her against him.

“He’s right,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me again.”

                                                  ---------------------------------------------------------

Between the jolts of the cart and his awkward position, the ride was far from comfortable. Meg dozed, her breathing even. He hoped he cushioned her from the worst of it. He smiled into her hair. She’d be mortified if she knew she was snoring, though softly; well, he wouldn’t be the one to tell her.

Watching the scudding clouds, their bellies underscored by moonlight, his thoughts drifted. The hawk had almost been a fiasco. He’d wanted to shout sense into Meg at first but, after a minute, had surprised himself. He actually understood her impulse. He remembered a time when Vaisey had pushed one of his caged birds into his hands; his extreme discomfort at holding something so tiny and vulnerable. Then, it never occurred to him to set it free; its freedom had been incidental, a result of his distraction as Vaisey had baited him about Marian.

Just as afterwards, it had never occurred to him to set Marian free: from the sheriff, from the castle, from his affections. Always, a litany of what he should have done. But all he could do now was what he must, to move forward.

_Don’t leave me again._

He’d meant it, as much as he’d ever meant anything. But lying there, Meg soft and warm against him, her hair tickling his face, he thought of Hubert Walter and his offer, and Guy knew what he had to do.

What he didn’t know, however, was how he was going to tell Meg.

They reached the camp before midnight. Guy eased out of the cart and lifted Meg, who hadn’t woken. He carried her to her pallet where Tuck appeared beside them, checking his patient. Guy was surprised to see a tear in her sleeve, and blood stains; a talon must have caught her. Tuck dressed the gash and then, with a grunt of satisfaction, stepped back.

“That’ll do. Just make sure she’s kept warm,” he said, as he lifted the curtain and walked out.

The camp was settling; he heard only muted whispers, and the bumps and knocks of people trying to move about quietly in the dark. As Guy drew up the covers her hand reached for his, entwining their fingers.

“Stay here, with me,” she whispered.

Guy hesitated. He wanted nothing more; but if he did, what would the outlaws think of her? Meg tugged his hand gently. And Guy, thinking of Tuck’s words – was it a sanction? – realised none of the men here would say or do anything to harm them. Kate was different, but he hadn’t seen the hellcat, either here or at the Bennett estate.

“I’ll be back.” He gave Meg’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Guy lifted the curtain and stepped out. He went to the barrel and washed his face; as he put the lid back on, he fumbled and it clattered against the barrel.

“Oi, Giz, will you be quiet?”

So, Allan was awake.

“Where’s Kate?” he asked quietly, through the curtain.

“Gone to her mother’s for a few days. Now get some sleep. And if you’re wondering where, then there’s no hope for you.”

“Shut it Allan,” he said wearily.

“Just go be with your lady will you, and let us get some sleep,” came Archer’s voice, all tact abandoned.

He went back to Meg. She was fumbling with her dress, by the light of a single candle. Her face was white with fatigue; she looked like she might fall over any moment.

“Can you help me?” she asked. “I can’t lift my arms far enough.”

Guy sat beside her and undid the ties of her gown. He wondered who had done this for her in camp before; probably Kate. As it slid from her shoulders he closed his eyes a moment, and took a deep breath; it would be a difficult night in more ways than one. Meg was shivering; he removed his jacket and lay down, wrapping the blanket around them both. There was barely room for two, but he backed up against the side of the cliff and gathered her against him. She sighed, contented, and was soon asleep.

Guy slept little. Discomfort didn’t bother him, but the irony of his situation did. He had rarely kept a woman in his bed until morning, and never with as little physical satisfaction. They were there for a purpose, gone when it was done. But here, distracted by the curve of Meg’s neck, fighting the desire to lift her hair aside and press his lips to her skin – fighting the desire, when she wriggled back against him, to do a whole lot more than that – he just held her, aware of how close he’d come to losing her. She was the most precious thing in his life. Yet in the morning, sometime tomorrow, he must tell her he was leaving.

He dozed eventually, when it was almost dawn. As he drifted off, it was with the fleeting image of a hawk, with its first taste of freedom, about now diving for its kill somewhere to the east of Nottingham.

  
                                                   -----------------------------------------------------

Meg slept half the morning. When she finally woke, she could hear the murmur of voices – Guy, speaking quietly to Robin and someone else. Straining to hear, she could just pick out the words.

“Hubert’s a good man,” Robin was saying. “You can trust him.”

“I don’t know why he’d make the offer.”

“He likes to help. He made himself a name for it in the Holy Land, doing what he could for the sick and wounded, giving relief to orphans and widows amongst the pilgrims. It frustrated the hell out of Richard, but I guess it’s why he trusts him so well now.”

“So I’m one of his lost causes,” Guy said. There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.

“Just try it, will you? It’d do you good to work for someone who isn’t a madman.” Archer was there as well.

“He extended the offer to you too.” Archer cursed, and Guy chuckled. “See. Now you know how it feels.”

Meg started to rise, quietly; if she moved closer she could hear better what was going on, but Guy was there at once, lifting the curtain.

“You were listening.”

“What’s going on?” Something was troubling him; Meg reached for his hand. “Tell me, what is it?”

Guy glanced over his shoulder; the camp was miraculously empty now, except for Tuck, who was packing a satchel in the shelter opposite. They had almost all the privacy they needed, but still Meg could see him stalling. Guy walked over to Tuck, had a quiet word with him, and then as Guy returned Tuck picked up his satchel and left the camp.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him you’re safe with me.” Guy grinned wolfishly.

“That was foolish.”

Meg bit her lip, wondering if she’d been too bold.

“Don’t tempt me,” muttered Guy, sitting beside her and taking up her hands. His thumbs caressed her palms.

“I’m so sick of this bed,” Meg complained.

“I know. You took such extreme measures to get away from it.” A lopsided smile, it snatched at her heart. “Or me. Why leave Meg? Why didn’t you come to me and talk about what Kate said?”

“It was foolish, I know. I should have done, but at the time it sounded so plausible. I hated to think it could be true, that you were with me because you had no other choice.” She looked at him closely. “But now I think you do have one. Am I right?”

Guy ran a hand over his jaw, a gesture she already knew.

“You’ve no idea how much I want to stay here, with you. But some of what she said, it did make sense. I can’t live hand to mouth in the forest forever. If I’m to hope for more...I’ve some fairly serious crimes to atone for, if I’m ever to hope for a pardon from the king.”

“So where are you going?” she asked, her voice almost steady.

“The Archbishop’s asked me to join his retinue, to help guard the ransom across the next shire. Archer too, if he wants to come.”

“And Robin thinks it’s a good idea?”

“Don’t you?”

He’d cornered her, by asking her opinion. Of course he had to accept, she could see that as clearly as the next person.

“How long?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Several weeks, at least – he’s collecting across Yorkshire, after that he’ll pass the task over to the Bishop of Durham and return for his investiture.”

Guy paused, folding her into his arms.

“He’s coming tomorrow,” he said quietly against her hair.

Meg groaned. She resolved to be strong, and not to weep, but in the deepest hour of night, when she thought Guy was asleep – he’d stayed with her again – gave way to her misery. Instantly he was awake, had he even been asleep.

“Hush, my darling....hush...” he soothed, stroking her hair.

But it wasn’t words Meg needed to calm her fears. He sensed her need, placing soft kisses along her neck, and up to her ear, and the press of his lips on her skin made her tremble. She turned to face him, but winced in pain and rolled onto her back. She sighed in frustration. A soft rumble of laughter, and Guy leaned in; a tender kiss, and another, then his hand came behind her neck and when his tongue pressed against her lips she opened to him with a moan that came from deep within. She ran her hands along his arms and, though it made her wince a little, she pushed up his shirt. She wanted to have the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. She wanted all of him, and was glad the darkness hid her blush as she moved her hand lower, brushing across the front of his breeches.

Guy groaned, and caught hold of her hand.

“Did I do something wrong?”

She heard a choked sound in his throat. He brought her hand up to his lips, and kissed it.

“Would you have me break my word to Tuck?” he asked.

“Yes!” vehemently. Then, in a small voice: “I don’t want you to forget me. You’ll be travelling around, meeting all sorts of people - women....”

She faltered to a stop; Guy still held her hand, but she could sense he had withdrawn. Meg lay quietly, wondering what to do, what to say. Had she ruined everything, being too forward? He would go away tomorrow, leaving her with no way to fix it.

“Meg,” he said then, in a tone she’d never heard before – “if I give you my heart, it will be too late. Be sure that you want it.”

Aware of his dark past, Meg knew this was a warning.

“It is too late for me,” she whispered.

And then, it was as if her words unleashed a torrent of feeling in him. She was carried with him on a rush of sensation that made her forget everything. His hands traced beneath her shift, roaming across her breasts; the shift gone, his lips following the trail his hands had left and – oh – as he caressed her intimately, the skill of his touch, and soon she was clutching his arms and stifling gasps against his shoulder as she shuddered in waves beneath his hand.

“So you won’t forget me,” he murmured huskily into her ear.

Then: “My turn,” she whispered.

She undid the laces at his waist; he slid the breeches down and kicked them off. She ran her hands over the planes of his stomach, moving downwards; but after a moment, Guy stilled her hand.

“Meg – you don’t need...I’m happy just to...”

“Shhh – yes, I do.”

He freed her hand. Shyly at first, Meg took hold of him. She experimented, and his reactions made her bolder. Breathless herself – _this_ , none of this, could she have suspected - she drew him on until with a deep moan he bucked against her and was spent. _Oh Meg_. They lay tangled, skin against skin, as their breaths calmed. 

Eventually, he stirred. His lips grazed hers, tenderly, at first, then more heated. When Meg felt him harden again, she adjusted herself so that his length pressed between her legs, but Guy pulled back abruptly.

“I’ll not risk leaving you with child,” he said hoarsely, cupping her face.

He sat up, throwing on his shirt, and started to untangle her shift and his breeches from the heap at the end of the pallet. It was almost dawn. In the receding dark they lay clothed, pressed close together, her face against his chest; waiting. Day came, the camp stirred, all was routine. Except that come noon, the Archbishop arrived, and in the early afternoon – once the ransom carts were organised, and goodbyes said (“ _Be patient, my heart_ ”) - Guy and Archer rode away with Hubert Walter for an undetermined period as part of his retinue.

Lost and bereft, Meg wandered across to sit by the fire-pit, staring listlessly at the ashes. For the rest of the afternoon the outlaws made various, tentative gestures of comfort - an awkward pat or two on the shoulder, Much rambling about Guy at least doing something right, Allan coaxing her to join him at merels. But there was no comfort to be had. When finally she did return to her pallet, after their evening meal, she clutched the pillow to her and wept, desolate.

Sadly, she had never been a patient person.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**_September 18th, 1193_ **

"Are you looking for trouble?" protested Guy.

“Just feeling nostalgic, brother. After all, isn’t this where we met?”

“Yes. And if you recall, we ended up with a noose around our necks. I’d like to avoid that happening again.”

“It won’t, not this time. We’ll lay low, be out early tomorrow. No one will recognise us. Besides, it’s my last chance for a while to find some feminine company. Are you with me?” Archer grinned. “Thought not...well, don’t wait up.”

“Best you take that off.” Guy nodded to the tunic bearing the Archbishop’s crest. “Given the reception Hubert got here, you might not want to have it seen.”

“Good thinking,” agreed Archer, shrugging out of the tunic and rummaging for a shirt.

When he was gone, Guy kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed, one arm behind his head. York. The last place he’d have chosen to break their journey back, but Archer had a way of inveigling upon others that even he found difficult to avoid.

These nocturnal outings were different; Archer had given up. The invitation had been tossed out as a matter of habit, but Archer knew Guy would refuse. He had no interest in it. But with the memory of Meg’s caresses, of their last night, still fresh in his mind, it didn’t feel like abstinence; it felt like longing.

Guy groaned, and turned on his side. He’d just have to deal with it.

Four weeks. Most of a shire, through towns, villages, forests, meadows and heath-lands, along ill-kept and uneven roads; lodgings grabbed when possible in castles or manor houses, but sometimes billeted in parish homes, or sleeping rough in barns or fields. And at every location, the influence of the archbishop in securing accommodation, resolving disputes and maintaining morale; the capable Raff finding tasks or distractions before tempers could flare, cajoling from locals that extra keg of ale or bagged pheasant that would make the difference to the men’s comfort at the end of a day’s long ride.

Hubert Walter, Guy had discovered, was more soldier than clergyman. He’d even admitted, over an evening’s ale, that despite the brutality and hardships of the Holy Land, part of him still regretted his crusading days were over. That, Guy couldn’t understand.

‘So, are we on dangerous territory now?” Hubert had asked quietly, detecting Guy’s tightened grip on his goblet, and interpreting his silence correctly. “Come, speak man. You know no harm will come of it.”

“Let’s just say I have strong opinions about the – _legitimacy_ – of this war.”

“Ahhh... the merits or otherwise of an absent king...” Hubert sat a moment, considering his next words. “And are those the views that were compelling enough to turn a man against his sovereign? Or would you claim you were simply acting under orders?”

“Let me ask you something: do my actions make me more culpable than any man who took part in massacring those prisoners? What defence could a man make to himself, other than that the King had ordered him to participate?”

“You’re right, Sir Guy – it’s a thin line our conscience must draw. And yes, we could debate the nature and the rights or otherwise of those whom we obey, and consider personal and political motivations, but in the more immediate future it won’t be our own conscience or even the Lord making such judgements. It will be King Richard.” Hubert steepled his fingers, eyes narrowed as he considered Guy. “So, what then would be your answer to him?”

Guy met Hubert’s gaze, debating how much or how little to say. This man held his future in his hands.

“What I would like to say, is to ask him if he plans to remain here; whether he’s steward or leech to his people.”

Hubert spluttered on his ale.

“God preserve us!”

“What I’d actually say,” Guy went on, “I’ve no idea. I did it for gain, for power, for personal advancement. Blaming the wrongs Richard was doing us just helped screw my courage to the task.”

“Yet here you are,” Hubert observed. “I’m his representative; we’re collecting funds for his release. You’re now an agent of his negligence and alleged misrule, hoping this will bring you a pardon. You still follow whichever avenue you believe will bring you personal gain.”

“Not necessarily.” Guy paused, studying his ale. “There’s more to it than that. I may never be a King’s man, that doesn’t mean I can’t be on the right side for once.”

“Explain.”

“I’ll no longer offer my sword to anyone I wouldn’t trust to wield it. To anyone who wouldn’t protect those I care for.”

“Hmmm.” Hubert nodded an acknowledgement to this, and tapped his goblet thoughtfully. “Well, your defence needs work. Luckily, we have time.”

Hubert hadn’t raised the subject again, after this tacit offer of support. Nor had he felt the need to touch on questions of faith; there’d been no need. He knew there were other lessons, better learned, to be had, and that he wouldn’t have to be the one to offer them.

Guy pulled off his shirt and began to wash down. As he dried himself, Archer’s tunic caught his eye. The clothing had been an example. A few days in, Archer had appeared one morning in a guard’s outfit.

“Why not?” he’d shrugged, typically offhand. “Thought I’d give it a go.”

“I’m not wearing one.”

“Of course not, Sir Guy,” Hubert had said mildly. They hadn’t noticed him nearby, untangling reins. “You have an image to preserve. And that suits me just fine, for the moment.”

Everything skilfully managed with Hubert, one step at a time.The man had his own agendas, but Guy felt no need to unravel these. Once, he would have seen a man like Hubert as weak, ripe for coercion and exploitation. Now he would never make the mistake of considering Hubert weak. It hadn’t taken long, in Hubert’s employ, to realise what a fool he’d been to suffer Vaisey. Now, each evening that he spent with Archer and Raoul and the others, playing drinking games in a tavern, a field or a barn; each day that he rode with the guard – finding, in all this _, a place_ \- and those dark, caged years receded a little more.

Not entirely; he still had the nightmares. Less often, since Meg, but sometimes he’d still wake in the night panting, sweating, afraid that he might have whimpered aloud. _Marian_. He would lie staring into the dark, wondering if anyone had heard. Wondering, too, how he could ever have imagined that she might love Vaisey’s creature. She would have approved of Hubert though, he thought; this blunt, good-hearted, soldier-clergyman.

He liked to think Marian would have approved of him, now, too.

He finally slept. Archer returned some time before dawn and they left York without incident, spending another night on the road at a riverside tavern in Bawtry. By the time they left the King’s Highway in Sherwood late next afternoon, Guy was irritable and sore, their mounts fatigued.

“Home,” Archer said wryly, as they reined in on a ridge near the camp.

“About time. Remember the traps,” Guy cautioned, nudging the horse forward.

They crossed the gully without incident and dismounted, tying off reins to a tree.

“Hey Much - it’s Giz, and Archer.”

As they trudged over the incline and into the camp, Allan gave each a hefty clap on the shoulder, walking between them.

“Great,” said Much, straightening over the cook-pot. “Now there won’t be enough to eat. Watch that, will you? I suppose you two won’t want to go out hunting.”

“Damn right we don’t,” Guy muttered.

“At least you made it back in one piece, for which I suppose we should be thankful.” Picking up a bow and quiver, Much traipsed out of the camp.

“Where is everyone?”

“Er....they’ll be back soon. Kate and John are doing drops, Robin and Tuck went into Nottingham to find out about some new tax being imposed. Haven’t heard much from Isabella this past month, then all of a sudden......oh, right. You want to know about Meg.”

Guy folded his arms, waiting.

“Well, here’s the thing. After you left, she got sick, a real bad infection.” Allan hesitated, looking around as if he wished someone else were there. He was stalling.

It hit Guy then, what Allan was reluctant to tell him. _No. Anything but that_. Dazed, he reached out; Archer grabbed his arm.

“Steady on Giz – she’s alright. Well, she is now, but she wasn’t for a long while. We thought we’d lose her.”

“Where is she?” he croaked.

“Gisborne – Archer. I see you’ve upset Much already.”

Robin and Tuck strode into camp, and in the flurry of greetings – Guy registered, with slight surprise, the warmth of these as they clasped his arm and Archer’s in turn – he nonetheless felt his patience slipping.

“Where’s Meg?” he asked Robin.

“What’s Allan told you?”

“Nothing,” he snapped.

“Oi, that’s not fair, I told you she was sick...”

“He said it was an infection. Did her wound rupture?” Guilt sapped him. Those two nights they’d spent together; combined with all the other exertions around that time, had it finally been too much?

“No, that was healing well, despite her abduction. But you remember the gash she took from the bird? There were others, which in the dark escaped my notice. One festered, badly,” answered Tuck. “She became very ill; her body had already been drained of its reserves.”

“We brought Matilda here to have a look at her,” Robin added.

“That harridan!”

“She knows what she’s doing. Said it was a wonder Meg was still alive, but she wouldn’t be much longer if she stayed here. Matilda insisted on taking her away, to care for her and monitor the fever...”

“So she recovered? Where is she now?”

“Still with Matilda,” Tuck said. “During her recovery, she showed an interest and aptitude in herb lore. Since then, she’s been helping Matilda tend the sick amongst the villagers.”

“Her daughter's married and moved out, so she’s happy to keep Meg there for now,” added Robin.

“And you just let her?” he growled. “Leaving her there in plain sight, where her father or that bastard Rede could snatch her at any time? I trusted you, to look after her.”

“We check on her most days,” Robin said. “But it’s her choice, Gisborne – it’s what she wanted to do.”

Guy paced away, leaning against one of the poles, head bowed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He needed to see Meg - more than that, he needed to know that she was protected in his absence.

“That woman hates me,” he said, to no one in particular.

“Can you blame her? You did try and drown her once,” Allan pointed out.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Guy barked, swinging round.

Allan raised both hands in a placating gesture.

“Hold on, I’m on your side, remember? We all are. Well, most of us. If you’re worried about how you’ll get to see her that’s easy, one of us can go and get her. She’s not bedridden anymore, she can come and go as she pleases.”

“I’m going now.”

Guy marched for his mount, but Robin stepped into his path and Tuck gripped his arm.

“Let go.” Guy shook free.

“Not a good idea,” Robin said firmly. “One of us will go tomorrow. You getting into a row with Matilda won’t achieve anything.”

“He’s right,” put in Archer. “Besides, it’s late, you’ve been a day in the saddle and you smell like it. Nothing will happen to her tonight.”

“We don’t know that. When did anyone last see her?”

“I was by there today – she’s fine," said Allan.

Guy ran his hands over his face, defeated.

“The river then?” Archer pressed their advantage.

“Why not...”

Drawn into routine - bathing, Much’s stew, Kate’s niggles ( _so good to be back_...), the tales of the road he and Archer had to tell - it all did nothing to distract him from his concern. He felt Meg’s absence acutely; she belonged here, with him. 

He’d told himself that enforced separation could be a good thing: it would test her constancy. Of his own, he had no doubt. But now, back in Sherwood, listening to the click of night insects and the rustle of nocturnal creatures, alone on the pallet where they’d shared their first intimacies, he realised just how much could change in that time. Even if Meg was safe, would her feelings have run their course? He imagined some village buck, with fair looks and flattery, capturing her eye. He wished, now, that he’d never left. But if he was to have any hope of a future, he’d had no choice. If in doing so he’d lost Meg, he didn’t know what he would do.

Well, he did know – Hubert had taken care of that – but these circling thoughts drove him up in the middle of the night to sit by the embers of the fire. Unaware how long he sat there, he didn’t stir until Tuck stepped past and went into the trees. When he came back, the monk paused and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“She called your name often, when she was caught up in the fever.”

Guy glanced up.

“I don’t deserve her,” he said. “But I can’t be without her.”

“Then be with her, and just see what each day brings. If it’s your aim to be worthy then strive for that, you won’t lose by the effort, whatever happens.” Tuck gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. “Get some sleep, it’ll be morning soon.”

  
                                                           --------------------------------------------------

  
Matilda had left an assortment of ingredients, and specific instructions, when she’d left at daybreak.

“Pound all these, use that brass pot to boil them up with the celandine and red nettle - I’ve already prepared those. Add some butter. Then just leave it all, it needs to sit a while and turn red. About a week, then we’ll strain it. I’ll be back around noon.”

Meg finished combining the cropleek and garlic and set the mixture aside, swiping hair from her face with the back of her hand. She stood and stretched, loosening her shoulders, and went to the window. Sun fell across the sill; a clear, warm autumn day. She longed to be outside – there was a stump she could use as a work surface – but she didn’t dare sit out in the open when each sound of hoof-beats on the road could as easily be Rede’s as Guy’s.

It felt good to be useful. Even before she’d been up and about, she’d watched Matilda, gleaning what she could of the recipes, of what herbs treated which ailments and, seeing her quick mind and her interest, Matilda had been swayed to allow her to help once she could.

She liked it here. Matilda, though gruff and intolerant, could come out with pithy comments that set her off laughing till her side hurt. The variety kept her entertained. Some days Matilda would take her out on visits, or there were days like today where she was given the task of mixing remedies, and she found this new responsibility as heady as she found the new things she was learning stimulating.

None of which meant that she missed Guy any less; she needed the distraction. Her world was colourless without him.

She jumped, then, as the gate thumped open, and went outside.

“Morning Meggles – can you judge our spitting contest?”

The two lads came by every morning, avoiding chores.

“Betcha I can hit the stump,” Cal challenged.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I can piss further than him.”

“Wait.” Meg choked back a horrified giggle; the taller one looked like he might demonstrate. “I need someone to help lift...”

Behind them the gate banged again. Meg glanced over their heads.

“Scram, you two. She’s busy,” Allan said, coming up the path.

Eyeing his tag, the two made off, chattering excitedly.

“Meggles?”

“If you tell anyone...”

“Don’t worry, secret’s safe with me.”

“Is Guy back?” she asked eagerly.

“Yesterday afternoon. He and Matilda have a bit of a history, so he thought he’d better not show his face. But he’s at the camp. I said I’d bring you back.”

“I have to do this,” Meg groaned, waving at the heap of ingredients. “And Matilda’s out till noon. Can you wait, or even better, help me...”

“Whoa, not my thing. Tell you what, I’ll tell him to come get you himself. You can meet him at that track out by the crossroads.”

“What if someone sees us? Besides, you’re here, and I need help to get that big pot onto the fire, so...”

Allan gave in, grumbling. He helped with the pot then watched while Meg battered herbs with more haste than care and chucked everything in, hoping she’d remembered the quantities correctly. By the time Matilda returned, a little late, Meg was fidgeting on the doorstep, wanting to be gone.

“Be back this evening,” Matilda agreed. “I need you here, what with the blacksmith’s brood going at both ends, and Clara near her time.”

“Oh – I was hoping for a few days, at least. It’s been weeks since....”

“Just who is this friend?” 

“One of us,” Allan put in. “He’s been off with the archbishop’s men, helping guard the ransom.”

Meg shot him a grateful look.

“Why should I believe anything you say, Allan-a-Dale? Well, it makes no difference. If you want a roof over your head you need to work for it, my girl. I can give you the afternoons, but that’s all. So, be off with you.”

With so little time, Meg convinced Allan to use one of the mounts they stabled in Clun.

“Leave that,” Meg said, as he started to lift the saddle. “We have to hurry.”

“But I don’t ride bareback.”

“Oh.” Meg bit her lip.

Allan sighed.

“Go on then.”

“What?”

“Get going, I’ll walk. But tell Giz he owes me one.”

“So do I!”

Meg gave him a swift hug, then Allan crouched and she used his cradled hands to mount. Cantering out of the village, she felt guilty for leaving him but as she approached the camp was glad that she had because there, she saw Guy, and knew that she couldn’t have waited another moment. She slid down, intending to run to him, but tripped on a root and fell, tangling herself in her skirts. Her face burned, hearing snickers, but it wasn’t Guy – he was there lifting her up, a tender smile on his face. Nor was it Little John.

“Leave the lass alone,” he scolded.

“Well, it did look funny.” Much, a little shamefaced.

“You’d laugh if I did that!” Kate said, defensively.

“Have you not learned your lesson? What does it take...”

“Let’s get out of here,” Guy whispered in her ear, and Meg heard no more of their bickering as Guy mounted and held out his arm, helping her up behind him.

He turned the horse, kicked it forward, and they rode away from the camp.

“Where are we going?”

Not that she cared. She tightened her arms about his waist, her face against his shoulder. When they reached a meadow – she had no idea where they were - Guy drew rein and dismounted. Meg slid down, and waited while he tied the horse to a tree. She looked around, noticing they’d left the shelter of the forest.

“Shouldn’t we....”

“Later,” rumbled Guy. “God how I’ve missed you...”

He traced the side of her face with a finger, a touch that whispered across her skin and made her feel both delicate and beautiful, when she believed she was neither, and the look in his eyes so warmed her heart that she lifted her hands to his face – “Kiss me” - and when he did, she melded herself to his body and ran her hands beneath his shirt, over the skin and contours of his back, and felt a yearning that both unsettled and excited her. 

When they finally drew apart, he pushed the hair away from the side of her face, and toyed with the tangle of her curls.

“Are you here to stay?” he asked. “Will you leave Matilda’s?”

Allan had said there was a history; she could tell it in the way Guy said the healer’s name.

“I like it there, and she’s been good to me. I think I should stay with her, for now.” Meg paused. “Which means I only have the afternoons. I have to go back this evening. Now that you’re here though...maybe, after this week, I could persuade her to let me come and go more freely, so I could spend more time at camp...”

“I’d rather you weren’t there at all,” he said, frowning. “It’s dangerous – your father, Rede, Isabella – if any of them find you, we might not be able to get you out next time.”

“I’m careful, I stay out of sight unless I’m helping with her visits....”

“Meg, listen - I know you want to help people, but women like her, they’re likely to attract the wrong sort of attention.”

“What do you mean?”

Guy cleared his throat, clearly uneasy.

“Look, if a physician loses a patient, folk think nothing of it. They assume he tried his best, but failed. Someone like Matilda, a failure can be more costly. It can lead to accusations that are pretty impossible to defend against.”

“Ahhh – you mean witchcraft.”

Meg fell silent; this was something she hadn’t considered. Guy took her hands in a firm hold.

“I want you to be safe,” he said.

“But isn’t it unlikely? I mean, no one bothers Matilda. The village folk know she’s there to help them, I can’t imagine they’d turn on her. People understand...”

“I’m not talking about peasants, Meg.”

“Then what....? Oh, you mean Isabella?”

“Anyone with enough money and influence to prosecute a grievance if they decide one exists, or to create one if it suits them. A spurned suitor...”

“None of them will know. I think you’re worried about nothing, which is....”

“I don’t want you there,” Guy snapped, losing patience.

Meg flung his hands away.

“What else would you have me do? At least with Matilda I feel useful,” she shouted.

“Useful and dead is a waste of time,” he said harshly. “Stay in the forest. Robin and the others will look after you.”

Meg folded her arms, sensing a hurt waiting to ambush her.

“Why Robin? Where will you be?”

Guy took a step toward her, but Meg backed away, angry and upset. She saw the confusion on his face, and wondered what had happened to the sweet reunion she’d imagined so often. Somehow they’d stumbled into a thicket of misunderstandings; she wondered how they could find their way out.

Guy moved away, looking across the meadow. Meg swallowed her indignation and went to him, laying a hand on his arm. He looked down, and there was a tension about his mouth that she desperately wanted to smooth away.

“I’m no good at this Meg,” he confessed.

“At what?”

“At being with someone I care about.”

“We managed before,” she said sadly. Then: “You’re going away again, aren’t you?”

Guy sighed.

“In about ten days. Hubert’s meeting the Bishop of Durham at Scarborough, handing the northern collection over to a Hugh Bardulf. When he travels south again we’re to meet him at Nottingham, and accompany the ransom to Canterbury.”

“How long?”

“It’s a greater distance, but it’ll be quicker. He’ll only visit the strongholds that served as collection points, and he has to be back late October to prepare for the investiture.”

Meg absorbed this, trying to sort through her feelings. Yes, he’d be gone again, but the fact he was trying to establish a place in the world beyond Sherwood, other than living as an outlaw...she could only hope he was doing it for her sake.

Guy turned to face her, taking hold of her arms. He gazed down, and the look he gave her whispered that perhaps their reunion wasn’t lost to her after all.

“I didn’t want to talk about all this, not today,” he said quietly. “This thing with Matilda, it just caught me off guard. I thought you’d be coming back to the forest, to be with me.”

The vulnerability in his words caught at her heart. As his arms drew her in, Meg tilted her hips against him. His quick snatch of breath matched hers.

“Let’s not argue,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed, mouth descending to meet hers.

And other than a hawk drifting on wind-currents over the meadow, no living creature came by the rest of that afternoon. They lay concealed by the long grasses until lengthening shadows cast the meadow into shade. Then Meg disentangled herself and reluctantly sat up.

“I have to get back.”

Guy stood, brushing off grass, holding out a hand to help her up.

“At least we have some time,” she said, looking up. “We have ten days. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

And she was.

  
                                                    ---------------------------------------------------

  
Kate dawdled at the edge of the woodland, debating with herself what to do. When she’d left camp, it had seemed so obvious; now that she was here, she had to admit that she felt slightly ashamed.

A week, since Gisborne had returned. It made her sick, how they treated him like he was one of them. Did they just conveniently forget everything he’d done? Once a murderer....like a wind vane, she thought him, turning whichever way would bring him an advantage.

“Does no one care about his crimes?” she asked Robin one morning, in frustration.

“Kate,” hands cupping her face, his voice earnest, “you need to let it go. Hating Gisborne won’t bring your brother back.”

Kate had stepped out of his embrace, almost angry enough to fling at him some comment about Marian. But she hadn’t. She’d kept her thoughts to herself, watching Gisborne make himself at home, disappearing each afternoon with Meg. God, how the woman fawned on him! They took no notice of her black looks, too absorbed in each other to care what anyone thought. And watching them, it made her heart ache. She knew Robin never looked at her like that.

Pushing this unwelcome thought away, she flicked her skirts and continued on into the village. The barest pause at the gate, a deep breath; then she pushed it open, and walked up the path to knock on the door of Matilda’s cottage.  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

“No wonder you didn’t want to tell me who you were seeing....that beef-witted boot-licker!”

Meg jumped back from Guy’s embrace, startled. Too late, she realised their mistake. Finding it harder to part, they’d become reckless; Guy had accompanied her to where the forest thinned near the village.

“And you – you clay-brained clot...you dare even show your face around here, after everything you’ve done? As if that’s not enough, brazen as anything, you stand there mauling a lady of gentle birth where just about anyone can see?”

“We weren’t...”

“You be quiet missy, I’ll deal with you later, once he’s gone.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong.” Guy, Meg saw, was struggling to keep his temper; his hands were fisted at his side.

“That’s rich, coming from you. On which day might you be talking about? I bet he’s not told you what he did to me?” Matilda had turned back to her.

“I didn’t ask,” Meg said hotly. “And I’d rather you...”

“Had me trussed up and shoved in Locksley pond, him and his lousy boss. They accused me of being a witch, tried to drown me. This one just stood by and watched, like he always did.”

It made sense now, some of his objections to her being there.

Meg slowly turned toward Guy, and experienced a moment of surreal clarity: everything in her sight seemed to sharpen, down to the gossamer wings of the grasshopper on a leaf beside her arm. Her senses, marking the moment as one on which her world would turn. One in which she had to reconcile the crimes he’d committed with this man who stood before her now, a desperate plea in his eyes.

“You should have told me,” she said quietly.

“I wanted to, but I was afraid....” His grip on her arms was painful, a symptom of his agitation. “Meg – “

“Get your hands off her.” Matilda slapped at his arms. “How can the girl think straight – some of them think you’re easy on the eyes, I know, and I’ll not let you use that to bamboozle her.”

Meg felt Guy tense; saw a dangerous gleam in his eyes, as he lifted his hands away to fend off the barrage of Matilda’s slaps.

“Stop it woman – I need to talk with her. Just leave us alone, will you?” he growled.

“I’ll do no such thing. You – come with me.” Now Matilda took hold of her. “If you see him again, you can forget about staying here. I’ll have none of it.”

“Meg...”

Guy took a step toward her. She shook her head slightly; it was too much, she needed to get away, to think. Almost told Guy to let her be, but she couldn’t bear the look of hurt on his face, so instead she turned and simply let Matilda lead her away.

                                                      ---------------------------------------------

Matilda saw it too; wondered, for a passing moment, if she might have been mistaken about him.

But then Gisborne looked at her and his face hardened – _that_ look she knew, expected - so she humphed and, holding Meg’s elbow, marched the girl back toward the village.

                                                       ---------------------------------------------

Guy gripped the hilt of his sword, watching them leave. Once, for far less provocation, he would have drawn it - if only to make the madwoman keep her distance. The fact that he hadn’t meant nothing; his past was always there, a gaping pit. The people around here would never accept him, no matter what he did.

The confusion and disappointment he’d seen in Meg’s eyes cut him. He’d be leaving in a few days’ time, and with that witch-spawn in the way he had no way to make things right.

Despairing, furious – he might yet use the blade, if anyone else crossed him – he spun about and strode back into Sherwood. And as he walked, it occurred to him that Matilda had been lingering, almost as if she’d expected to see them. They hadn’t been that incautious. Which meant someone had told her about their trysts, and he had a fairly good idea who.

He’d wring her meddling neck. At every turn, the hellcat thwarted him. Her spite drove Meg away the first time; even now, it was partly the reason Meg chose to stay with Matilda. Would Kate never leave him alone?

Before he reached camp, he sank down on a log to try and calm down. Drew his dagger and plunged it into the dirt, the darkest of thoughts blurring his mind. _I could be here a while._

Sometime later he heard voices; Allan and John nearby, collecting firewood.

“He’s usually back by now. Do you reckon something’s gone wrong?”

The crack of splitting branches obscured John’s reply

“....I don’t care what you say, it isn’t right,” Guy next heard.

“Aw come on, give him a break. Don’t you think he deserves....”

“And what about her? What does Meg deserve?” John overrode him. “We’ve all had to be without a home, and family. This is no place, no life, for a wife and little ones. So what’s he doing, what’s he leading her to believe?”

Incensed, Guy surged into the clearing, barrelling into John; the impact knocked the big man down. Livid, he had his arm drawn back for the punch but then Allan was on him, hauling him back.

“Giz, stop. What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s none of his business, I’ll not have.....ooomph.....”

Distracted by Allan, he didn’t see it coming. The gut punch from John doubled him over.

“That, I’ll not take from _you_.” John stood back, hands on hips, glaring.

Guy shook Allan off.

“Take this stuff back, John. We’ll stay here until he’s calmed down.”

“You think,” snarled Guy.

John stepped back and picked up his staff, keeping a wary eye on Gisborne.

“You two can do it, give him something useful to do. I’ll have nothing more to do with him.” Little John turned and strode away.

“Don’t worry,” said Allan, “he’ll cool down. He does, eventually. But what was all that about? You should be in a better mood, considering where you’ve been.”

“Matilda found us. Someone, I’d say Kate, told her Meg’s been meeting me...”

“Hold on, how do you know it was Kate?”

“Who else could it be?”

“Like you’ve got no other enemies? Never mind, go on.”

Allan sat on a log and gestured him alongside. Guy ignored him, staring through the trees after John.

“What gives him the right?” he muttered.

“He didn’t deserve a thumping, though I’m guessing it’s not him you’re angry with...so let me guess, Matilda’s told you not to see her again.”

“She told Meg about the pond.” Guy joined him on the log.

“Bleedin’ hell - you hadn’t told her that?” Allan shook his head. “What else? I’d have thought with your history you’d run out of hours in the day...sorry...”

“She never asks.” Guy said morosely. Even to his ears, it sounded lacking. He glanced at Allan, who was picking strips of bark off the log. “Well, what is it? Go on.”

“I probably shouldn’t, seeing as how you reckon it’s your business, and how you didn’t take very kindly to John...”

“Just get on with it.”

“What are your plans – you know, with Meg?”

“What do you think?”

A silence; more bark peeled, flaking at Allan’s boots.

“So - why haven’t you asked her?”

“Unless you’ve got something sensible to say...you said it yourself. With my past, and no future to speak of, what could I offer her? John was right. She’s better off without me.”

“Hang on, he didn’t say that. I’m not saying it either. I reckon you should.”

Guy glanced up sharply.

“What?”

“You heard. She’s crazy about you – you’re both sickening when you’re together. I think you should. Now that you’re with Hubert, he’ll see you right.”

“We don’t know that.” Guy dug a heel into the dirt. “It doesn’t matter what I do, there’s no guarantee that when the king returns he won’t execute me for treason. Where would that leave Meg?”

“All the more reason. The point is, you don’t know what’ll happen. All this rubbish about when the king returns – where did that ever get you with Marian? In fact, where did it ever get Robin and Marian? Bloody nowhere, that’s where. And if Meg did lose you....well, let it be her choice. Lay it all out for her and let her decide if she wants you, crimes and all.”

Guy was silent, considering. Allan made a perverse kind of sense, but to Guy, there seemed no end his doubts and objections.

“It’s too soon,” he finally muttered.

“Bollocks.”

“This is priceless, coming from you...no two nights with the same woman....”

Allan stood abruptly.

“Not true. But maybe someone should have told me once the same thing I’m telling you now. Come on. Have you cooled down enough to get back to camp?”

“You go, I’m not coming. I can’t be round that – I can’t be near Kate at the moment, not when I want to throttle her. I’ll sleep in the cave.”

Allan shrugged.

“Suit yourself. And while you’re holed up there, just think about it Giz.”

“Great advice when I’m banned from seeing her.”

“We’d think of something,” Allan grinned.

Once he was gone, Guy made his way to the cave. He barely had the fire lit when Tuck appeared, bringing food and a water-skin.

“Though you might need these,” he said, dropping the supplies by the fire. He leaned against the rock, frowning. “Allan tells me you’re avoiding Kate. You can’t forever, you know.”

“I can for tonight.”

“Well – if you need anything else....”

“Thank you.”

He was touched by Tuck’s concern. After he’d gone, Guy sat staring into the fire, thinking over what Allan had said.

Robin was next; the outlaw gestured to the mouth of the cave, and Guy got up and followed him out.

“Thought you might like a drop,” Robin said, crouching down and taking the stopper from a flask of wine.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Where do you think? Our latest donor travelling through the forest, my turn for the extras."

He filled the two goblets tied by a string to its neck. They drank them without speaking.

“Allan told us what happened,” Robin said, as he poured a second and handed it over.

Guy held his tongue; he’d not the make the mistake again of accusing Kate. Robin watched him, holding the rim of his goblet with his fingertips, swirling the contents, one arm draped across his knee.

“I know what you’re thinking. Look, they’re fond of Kate,” he offered finally, without prompting. He took a swig of wine. “We all are...the rifts it would cause....it’s not worth it...”

“And that’s enough reason?”

“For now,” Robin sighed.

They drank in silence again. Gloom gathered early in the forest, and it would soon be dark. Guy found he was glad of the company; his own thoughts weren’t likely to be pleasant companions.

“Look, the reason I came,” Robin began, “is that I can go to Matilda. She might listen to me, and let you see Meg again before you go.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s worth a try, especially if we say someone’ll watch you both. I’ll tell her you want to court Meg properly. I’m sure I can convince her.”

“And what good would that do?” scoffed Guy. “Last time I tried courting I made a right mess of it.”

“There’s a difference - this time she’s yours,” Robin said sharply. “Think about it. I’ll go tomorrow, if you want me to.”

When Robin left, Guy tipped back the last of the wine and stood. He looked down the incline, and the thought that had been nagging him suddenly crystallised. He realised why Robin had been reluctant to enter the cave.

So, again; a gaping pit, at every turn.

He went back inside to tend the fire and to prepare his evening meal.

                                                          -----------------------------------------------

As they neared camp, Robin turned their mount up a different track.

“Where is he?” asked Meg.

“At the cave; he stayed there last night, because of Kate.”

“Oh. I see.” She’d had her own suspicions.

Before they crested the rise, Robin stopped.

“Hop down,” he said, an indefinable note in his voice. “He won’t like it, you riding with me.”

“That’s silly,” grumbled Meg. “Keep going.”

Robin shrugged, and clicked the horse forward. As they rode over the ridge, Meg saw Tuck leaning against a tree, whittling and Guy – where was he? She slid down, only remembering at the last moment to turn back. She grasped Robin’s hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

Matilda had not been easy to persuade; Meg had been listening from the adjoining room.

“Tuck will take you back.”

“Robin.” Neither had seen Guy approach. Meg dropped Robin’s hand and ran to him. Guy held her against him but, looking up, she saw that for the moment his attention was focussed over her head. She’d never seen him so intent. “Thank you.”

Meg was expecting some quip, but the outlaw just nodded and turned the horse away. She looked up at Guy, and saw the same solemn expression directed at her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

Meg stepped back from him, uncertain now, fussing with her skirts.

“You don’t seem very pleased to see me.”

“Of course I am. It’s just, last time, you were happy enough for Matilda to take you away...”

“...happy? Nothing about that was happy....”

“...and now I’ve things I have to tell you that...”

“....then don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me.”

Guy looked at her in confusion.

“But I thought – when Matilda told you about the pond, you said I should....”

“I know what I said, and I’m sorry, but she caught me unawares.”

Guy watched her a moment, considering. When he took a step toward her and held out his hands, she took them.

“Why don’t you ever ask me about my past?” he asked, frowning.

“Why delve in the muck when I can play in the sun?” she replied softly....

...and Meg glimpsed a sweet, fleeting smile then, as he pulled her in and crushed her against him.

“No one’s ever called me that,” he murmured against her hair.

He tilted her face, brushing her hair back, and kissed her so desperately then that she felt she needed to steady him, though he set her own heart skittering and neither of them had the sense or will to break apart until slowly, as if from another place, Meg became aware of a tune being whistled nearby. She stepped back, blushing, recalling that Tuck was down the slope in the clearing.

“Well, what do we do now? You’ll be off redeeming yourself and I’m living with...”

“I know what I’d like to do,” he said suggestively, casting a frustrated glance Tuck’s way.

“Well, we can’t. We’ll just have to sit and talk.”

Which was more difficult than she’d imagined, tucked up against him, his fingers softly stroking her neck in the most distracting way.

“We have to talk about it sometime,” he said eventually. “There are things you need to know or it will always be the same, someone blind-siding you and then you wondering why I never told you.”

Meg was quiet, thinking.

“Tell me instead why you did it. Why you followed a monster like him. Then perhaps I’ll understand more when people accuse you.”

“It’s not unfounded Meg – I did a lot of things I’m ashamed of now.” Meg waited, as he toyed absently with her hair. “Why? Because I’d pledged to follow someone who knew how to gut out of a man every decent feeling. Isabella’s husband introduced us – he knew I was desperate, no land, no money except the bride-price, no prospects. Said Vaisey would go far, and that with my blade skills I was sure to interest him.”

Guy snorted derisively. “I could have handled a sword like a cleaver and he’d still have taken me on. I was angry and ambitious and he knew how to take those things and turn them into....”

“Why were you angry?”

“Because it beat despair,” he snapped. “Because when I lost everything, people here turned their backs on us and.....”

Meg twisted in his arms and turned, kneeling, to face him.

“Stop,” she whispered, cupping his face, pained by the hardness in his eyes.

He reached up and grabbed her wrist.

“You asked. So hear it.” His grip was tight, but the fact he rejected her comfort hurt Meg more. “They gave us nothing. Isabella was eleven, I was fifteen. I had to survive on odd jobs and stealing, trying to make enough to take passage to France where I hoped our relatives would help us. We lived in rags and off scraps, slept in barns and shepherd’s huts. After three winters I knew we couldn’t do it anymore. That’s when Thornton found us, and offered for Isabella.”

Guy dropped her wrist.

“Another mistake,” he said bitterly.

 _So young, both of them._ Tears welled in her eyes; at the sight of them, Guy pushed back from her and stood.

“And so is this,” he said, as he turned and stalked away from her, into the trees.

Meg scrambled up, dazed, looking after him. She became aware of Tuck at her side.

“Will he come back?” she asked, brushing at her tears.

“I don’t know,” the monk said sadly.

“He said I should know...I never wanted to ask...”

Tuck took her elbow.

“Let’s get you back to the village. You can come again tomorrow, by then he may have come to his senses.”

“But he’s leaving soon – no, I’ll wait here, in the cave.”

“It will be dark soon, and if you breach the agreement you have with Matilda she may not take you back.”

“I don’t care,” Meg suddenly decided. “If she doesn’t, then I’ll stay here – I can come with you, can’t I, to help the villagers? I’ve learned a few things, and I’m sure you can teach me more.”

“Meg – listen. You’ll always have a place here, I’m sure Robin would tell you the same, but these aren’t decisions to make when you’re overwrought.

Tuck’s soothing tones calmed her; Meg realised he was right. Her thoughts had been churning non-stop since their discovery by Matilda the day before; being with Guy hadn’t helped. Tuck was right, she was overwrought. She would go back to the cottage, and try and sort out in her head what she should do. If it wasn’t too late; she’d glimpsed something that afternoon that frightened her. Not Guy himself – he would never hurt her – but she remembered again his whispered confession in the dungeon, “ _I destroyed everything”._  
  
Tuck helped her onto the mount which Robin had left nearby. As they made a sedate pace back to the village, Meg brushed away more tears. There was so much she didn’t know. Given what she did, she wondered if her love would be enough to heal him; if she would be able to bridge the gulf of his hurts, and the burdens of his past.

Or, given that he’d left her that afternoon, squandering their short time together, if she would even have the chance to try.  
  



	15. Chapter 15

Guy smacked branches out of the way, ignoring the scratches as he they snapped back towards him. Better something that fought back; it might keep him from worse.

It didn’t. He was on them before he realised, crashing into a glade where Kate and Robin sat on a gnarled tree root that curved out of the ground and back in like a hooked finger. Robin glanced up first. Kate, intent on their conversation, took longer, but when she turned to face him, and her lips curved in a knowing smile, Guy couldn’t help it. He strode forward and gripped her by the arm, hauling her roughly to her feet.

“You sly bitch,” he grated, “this is all your fault.”

“Guy – let her go. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Kate stopped struggling, and turned eyes full of hurt towards Robin.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come off it Kate – we all know you went to Matilda.”

“What if I did? Someone had to make her see him for what she is, none of you lot will.”

“So you took it on yourself....you never learn, do you? First your brother, then Meg’s abduction...”

“Guy.....” warned Robin.

“What’s my brother got to do with it? No Robin, let him speak.”

“Your meddling got him noticed in the first place. If you’d known when to back off, when to keep quiet...”

“.....and just let you hang him? What would you know about having to protect someone, all you’ve ever done....”

Guy’s free hand shot up and gripped her chin, forcing her eyes up to meet his in a travesty of an embrace. With his memories of Isabella and their childhood struggles so fresh in his mind, it was the worst possible insult she could have chosen.

But before he could say anything, a hand clamped down on his wrist.

“Gisborne – enough. Don’t make it worse.”

Kate spat in his face. Guy’s fingers tightened momentarily, just as he sensed Robin about to strike him. But that didn’t make him let go. It was the thought, once again, that if Meg could see him now just how ashamed he would feel. He released Kate and stepped back.

“Get her out of my sight,” he said hoarsely, wiping spittle from his cheek.

He sank down blindly onto the ground.

“Go, Kate,” he half-heard Robin saying.

“You’re sending me away? For him?” Any other time and her incredulous tone would have been deeply satisfying.

“Please.”

Guy didn’t bother to watch her go. When they were alone, Robin sat back down on the exposed root. He scraped idly with a twig at some dried mud on his boot.

“She always wants more than I can give her,” he muttered.

_Because of Marian_. The same old slice, on a never-healed wound.

“If you’re lucky you probably made her angry enough just now to ditch _you_ ,” was all he said.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” That self-assured grin. “So, what happened?”

“Made a mess of courting again, just as I told you I would.”

“And like I said, you’ve no excuse this time.”

Guy glared at him.

“She shouldn’t be with me.”

He’d known what it would be like, revisiting old wrongs with Meg; but he hadn’t counted on her tears for him....sweet, compassionate Meg, she deserved so much better. _What the hell is she doing with me?  
_

The twig Robin was using snapped; he rummaged for another, and began on the other boot. He said nothing.

“Go on. You must have an opinion,” Guy said sourly, as the silence lengthened. “Everybody else does.”

Robin seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“You know, I tried to have it all once and it didn’t work....”

“Because of me,” Guy rasped.

“Partly, but that’s not what I meant. I was going to say it’s different for you..”

“Because I’m not Robin Hood,” Guy realised. Then, quietly, “but I am Guy of Gisborne.”

“And you can make of that what you will. No one here’s holding you back – well, except Kate....”

“She’d see me hang tomorrow.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? What Richard might decide to do?” Robin looked thoughtful. “Well, I can’t answer for Richard – after five years fighting alongside him I could only ever predict him half of the time – but Hubert’s a powerful man in his own right. And he does have the king’s ear.”

“But is that enough? And suppose he does let me live – however unlikely - what then? I’ve still no land, no title, nothing. I won’t have Meg live like a scavenger in the forest.”

“Our life’s not so bad, is it?” quipped Robin.

“You’ll always have Locksley.” Guy tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice; he suspected he failed.

“Things change,” said Robin, “especially now, with so many off fighting. We’re the lucky ones, me and Much; many won’t make it back. It leaves estates in flux. I know of at least one where the sons were killed and the old boy died with no living family and no heirs. Then I’ll wager there’ll be a few shifts in fortune once Richard gets back.”

“He’ll never grant me land,” scoffed Guy.

“Maybe not, but he isn’t the only one who can grant land. But one thing at a time, we have to keep you alive first. And you can let me and Hubert worry about that.”

Guy flicked his gaze up to meet Robin’s.

“You’d do that?”

“God’s teeth Guy, not everyone’s out to kick you down...”

“I know, but after...” Guy fell silent.

Robin sighed and flicked the twig away.

“Also,” he said, changing the subject, “if you don’t marry her someone else will. It’d keep her away from the likes of Rede.”

Guy fought the surge of hope that Robin - and Allan – had given him. But he needed to think; he needed time.

“I’ll see how this next stint with Hubert goes,” he decided.

And hesitated, but then ploughed on: “Robin – if she stays at Matilda’s, will you keep her safe for me?”

The irony of this was lost on neither of them, Guy could see, but he thought that if Robin came out with some mocking reply he’d make him choke on it.

He didn’t.

“As if she were my own,” he said earnestly.

“Always the hero,” muttered Guy, hiding his emotion.

“You said it,” grinned Robin.

He stood, and reached down a hand to help Guy up.

                                                             ------------------------------------------------

The drizzle, as Meg pressed the hood of her cape lower and trotted slowly toward the camp, matched her dreary mood. The last, lingering caress of summer before autumn closed its fist seemed to have spent itself on those afternoons she and Guy had passed in the meadow, or in the glade above the spring. There were no meadows and glades now, and no peace either. Gone were those uncomplicated days, of tenderness, and the simple joy of being together, and of secret smiles when they were apart.

Tuck was there to take the reins and help her down.

“He’s at the cave again,” he said, and led the way.

Now it was only a dank cave, lit by the flames of several torches, with Tuck sitting discreetly at the entrance and moisture pooling in the dirt as Guy helped her out of her cloak.

“I wish you weren’t going.” 

She hadn’t meant to say that, and certainly not so soon. But she needed him; why lie to him now? Equally, he wasn’t going to get off that lightly. He had hurt her.

“Do you want me?” she asked bluntly, holding herself stiffly in his embrace. She pushed back, her hands on his arms, meeting his eyes. “No – I don’t mean like that – I mean do you even want to be with me?”

“Why would you ask?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You go away for a whole month, you’re going again tomorrow...”

“You know why I’m doing that.”

“Do I?” she challenged. “How would I know what’s going on in that idiotic head of yours if you don’t tell me, especially when you charge off like you did yesterday...”

She stopped, determined not to cry. She wasn’t here to weep; she was here for answers.

“Meg – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

As she continued to hold aloof, a shadow crossed his face, and Guy dropped his hands.

“What?” she murmured, sensing a hurt.

“Don’t shut me out.”

The simple plea undid her. She stumbled into his arms and if his embrace had been hungry the day before, the need she felt now stunned her, and it would have taken more than a whistled tune to haul her back from wherever it was he took her.

“What’s going to happen to us?” she whispered, when finally they broke apart.

She was sitting on the rock by then, her skirts crumpling around his legs. Although she remained decent, Meg was glad Tuck stayed out of sight round the corner. As she spoke, Guy slid a hand beneath her hair, and gathered her in against him.

“It scares me Meg,” he whispered into her hair. “This. Us. But not as much as the thought of being without you, my heart. So I’ll figure it out, somehow.”

“I wish I could go with you. I wish I could stay here, with you, tonight....”

Guy touched a finger to her lips.

“Next time we spend the night together, sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll want to be in a cave,” he said huskily.

“So you’re rejecting me,” she teased.

Guy gave a deep chuckle.

“Never. If Tuck wasn’t there, I’d show you just how far from the truth that is.....even so....”

He moved away, dousing the nearest torch, then took her hand and led her round the rock. He sat down, and drew her in between his legs. With his body shielding her from view should anyone enter, gently at first, but then oh so thoroughly, he proceeded to show her.

"Turn around," he murmured, after a while, and she did so.

His arm was about her, supporting her as she gripped his thigh, her hair falling forward round her face. Then the tempo of his touch increased, until she was arching back against him, gasping, overcome.

“God Meg...” he groaned, withdrawing his hand slowly from beneath her skirts. “You’re killing me.”

She turned in his arms, caressing his face, committing it to memory.

“Come back to me, soon,” she urged.

Riding away later, hoping her burning face wouldn’t give her away, she decided that she had answer enough. She knew that the memories she would hold tight to her heart wouldn’t only be of an autumn meadow or a shaded glade, but of shadows thrown on a rock wall, of smoking torches, and of the scent of rain in the air.

                                                        --------------------------------------------------  


The weeks went by, and Meg atttended a second birth with Matilda. Unlike the trouble-free way in which Clara's babe, a third child, had rushed into the world, this one was a first labour and it spared the mother nothing.

“That’s not the worst you’ll see,” Matilda told her afterwards, as they walked back to the cottage. “And for all their so-called toughness, I’d defy any man to do what that lass has just done and not be a whimpering wreck.”

Meg’s hands were trembling, and the neckline of her gown was damp and cold from water spilled as she’d splashed her face afterwards. Wrung out, she trudged along beside Matilda in the twilight, aware of the woman’s scrutiny. She knew Matilda had meant the whole experience as a lesson, but if she decided to drive it home in so many words, Meg doubted she’d find a civil reply on her tongue.

But Matilda, reading the signs, said nothing further until they were opening the gate.

“Right, if you get the fire going I’ll see what I can throw together for us to eat.”

Meg followed her up the path and onto the threshold, but the healer stopped abruptly in the doorway, putting a hand out behind her and shoving Meg back.

“Do join me – I’ve been sorely in need of company, sitting here on my own this past hour,” said Isabella. “Please, I’m not a fool, let Meg come in too.”

Meg stumbled back, prepared to turn and run, but she backed into a guard.

“My lady,” he said, gesturing her inside with a sweep of his arm.

“Though in one way,” Isabella went on, “you’ve done me a favour. It’s given me time to savour what I plan do with you, what will hurt that idiot brother of mine the most.”

“How did you find me?” Meg tried to keep her voice steady as she took the stool opposite.

“It wasn’t hard,” purred Isabella. “I’ve known for a while, but I figured you weren’t going anywhere, especially when I hear Guy rode off some time ago and just left you again? Very careless of him, leaving you here alone.”

“My lady, can I offer you a drink? Perhaps we could talk about...”

“No – I don’t think so.” Isabella cut across Matilda, voice hard. “I know where your loyalties lie, and if you put so much as a toe out of line I’ll see you back in that pond with a stone around your neck to make sure you stay there. So – dearest Meg....”

Isabella paused, running a finger lazily up and down the arm of her chair; if Meg didn’t know better, she would have said her expression was friendly, benign even.

“This has been something of a dilemma for me, deciding what to do with you,” she went on. “So many choices. The easiest, I suppose, would be to pick up where we left off, with you back on the executioner’s block. But I feel that lacks a little imagination. No, I think we can do better than that.”

She rose and crossed to where Meg sat; strolled around the chair to stand behind her. Meg recoiled when Isabella placed a finger on her shoulder, and began to trace her collarbone.

“Has he left you a maid, I wonder?” Isabella whispered near her ear. “Well – no matter – I believe Rede would take you even if you were soiled.”

Meg shot to her feet.

“No – you don’t know what he’s like...please, of all people you should understand....”

“I can guess. And so will Guy. He will know, when he comes back and finds you already wed, what type of life you’ll have to lead: exactly the kind he sentenced me to, which is what makes it so perfect.”

“Are you’re so determined to destroy him that you’d make me suffer that?”

Isabella’s hand shot out and gripped her chin.

“Let me ask you the same question after seventeen years,” she hissed, “and we’ll see what your answer will be.”

“You won’t get away with it. You stole the ransom, when the king finds out...”

“So touching, how everyone believes the king will eventually return. Well, I’ll believe it when I see it. Besides, this is hardly treason; as Sheriff, I have the right to arrange marriages. Now, enough, gather your things and we’ll go.”

Isabella stalked to the door.

“You – fetch the carriage round, and you, bring her along in five minutes.” 

“Matilda, what can I do?”

As soon as Isabella had gone Meg eyes darted round the room, looking for an escape, knowing there was none. The healer went to a shelf, began searching for something.

“Don’t worry luv, we’ll think of something. Go with her for now....ah, here it is.” She turned back, shoving a bundle of herbs into a drawstring pouch and pressing it into Meg’s hands. “But in case things don’t work out – take this, it’s rue. Boil it up when you need to and drink the tea, it’ll stop you having to go through what that lass just went through, if this man’s the beast you think he is.”

As the reality of Matilda’s words hit her – the future they foreshadowed – Meg began to shiver.

“I can’t do it Matilda, I can’t go. I’d rather it was poison, can you give me something...”

“Now you’re talking drivel, girl. I told you: don’t give up. This is just in case, so get out of here.”

Then Matilda pulled her in for a swift hug.

“Stall for as long as you can,” Meg heard her whisper.

“My lady – are you ready?” said the guard who waited by the door.

Meg felt anchored to the spot, her world upended by her own stupidity. Why hadn’t she listened, and stayed in the forest where she would have been safe? The guard took a step toward her, but Matilda grasped her hand and led her forward.

“Remember, as long as you can. Any excuse.”

Meg stepped over the threshold and, clutching the ill-omened pouch of herbs, stumbled up the path to the waiting carriage.

                                                         ----------------------------------------------------  
  
Matilda watched the carriage disappear round the bend. Turning to go inside, she swiped her hands together brusquely.

“Tea?” she asked the guard Isabella had left stationed there; clearly the Sheriff had meant her threat.

The man shook his head. Shrugging, Matilda went back inside. She bustled around, putting water on to boil; if she drank her tea a little faster than usual, scalding her mouth, then the guard wasn’t to know. After perhaps half an hour, she blew out the candles and retired to bed, pulling the curtain shut behind her. Assured of privacy, she placed a stool by the window and climbed up, checking that Isabella hadn’t left any lackeys guarding the rear.

When she was certain it was clear, Matilda reached to the side, and plucked a rope from the depths of the vine climbing the wall. She gave it a sharp tug. Straining her ears, she could just hear the tinkle of a bell in the neighbouring cottage. Leaning on the sill, she didn’t have long to wait. Even in the moonlight, she could see that the boy’s face, as he appeared by the window, was flushed at the prospect of adventure.

“What’s going on?” Cal whispered.

“The Sheriff’s taken Lady Meg, so go – do what we talked about. You know where to find Robin?”

“Yep, he showed me where. I can go there and whistle and someone will come.”

“Good, then do it. Tell him what’s happened. And Cal, I don’t care how far you can piss – yes, I know what goes on, it’s a small village....just show us how fast you can run.”

As the boy pelted off into the shadows, Matilda clambered down and began to prepare for bed. Such a strange world: here she was, having harboured Gisborne’s woman – the same man who would once have seen her drown – now helping Robin, also once his mortal enemy, to protect this girl.

As she slipped between the covers, stretching out her aching legs – it had been one of her longest deliveries that day - she hoped they were doing the right thing. The man might be trying to change, but she knew that in this world you’d never get a turnip from a carrot seed. Given Lady Marian’s fate, she couldn’t help wonder what Meg thought she was doing. But who was she to judge? She could only hope that this time, by some miracle of fate, Gisborne might turn out to be the turnip that would prove her wrong. Chuckling to herself at the image, she plumped her pillow and turned over with a grunt.

It was up to the boy now, and Robin.  
  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

The carriage clattered beneath the portcullis and halted by the castle steps. Isabella allowed herself to be handed down, and turned to the guard.

“See Lady Meg to her chambers in the west tower. She’s free to move about, but watch her at all times. If she goes beyond the castle walls, be very clear, you'll swing for it.”

“Not the dungeon then?”

“Nothing so crude, my dear,” she said over her shoulder to Meg. “I see no reason you shouldn’t exist in comfort until your groom arrives. I’ll summon him tomorrow. Come to me in the morning, we’ve a wedding to plan.”

She swept up the stairs then, leaving Meg to follow the guard. When the heavy door to her room clicked shut, Meg stood motionless, plans, each becoming more and more improbable, swirling in her head. In the end, she simply lay down on the bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, shivering despite the fire in the grate.

She must have slept; it was daylight. Meg rose and went to the window, clambering onto the sill. A heavy fog obscured all but the nearest battlement. Pigeons batted their wings, a flurry of comings and goings on the ledge outside. Meg looked down. She drew her knees up, hugging them, gazing at the cobbled yard at the base of the tower.

A knock at the door made her jump.

“My lady – the Sheriff’s waiting. Will you be long?”

“No. I’m coming.”

Isabella received her in a private study. Branched candelabras augmented the pallid light coming through a row of arched windows behind her desk. Carriage wheels rolled across the cobbles outside; footsteps, shouts, barked commands.

“This fog is tiresome; it makes everything so dreary,” she complained as Meg entered. “At least we have a celebration to plan...that will cheer us up, I’m sure.”

“Just get on with it,” snapped Meg. “I’m tired of your games. This isn’t a real wedding, it’s nothing but revenge...”

“...oh, you’ll find it is a wedding,” crowed Isabella. “With all the trappings...we’ll make it as festive as we can, given the limited time we have to prepare. I’m sure the cooks can whip up some treats. We’ll have all the decorations from the fair put up, and I’ll have the steward organise minstrels...you’ll see, only the finest for you, Meg.”

Isabella rose, sidling round the desk, placing a hand on her arm.

“But you know the part I’ll enjoy the most?”

“You can stop your stupid intimidation. It’s not going to happen,” Meg interrupted. “I don’t consent. I will never consent. So there’ll be no marriage.”

Isabella’s grip tightened a little; she gazed at Meg thoughtfully.

“Interesting. So, if I give you a choice between the block, or this marriage....? Would that truly be your answer?”

Meg was silent; she was trapped. Tears filled her eyes, trying to imagine a future without Guy. Should she risk going to the block? There would be an announcement made, she would be in a public place - and Robin had saved her last time. Such a desperate course….

“Foolish, foolish girl,” tutted Isabella, “you even need to consider? I suppose I should have expected.....yes, what is it?”

She looked round as a guard entered.

“Some men are here to see you, my lady.”

“They’ve just arrived – they can wait. Give them refreshments and tell them I’ll be along shortly.”

The guard frowned.

“I don’t think that would be wise – they’ve been sent by Prince John.”

Muttering, Isabella glanced back at Meg.

“We’ll continue this conversation later. I’ve already sent for Rede, I’ll not have him go away empty-handed. He’ll take you with him, whether as a bride or a plaything it’s up to you.”

She stalked off, leaving Meg with her assigned guard. But instead of returning to the tower, Meg slipped along the corridor after Isabella. As the door closed on the Sheriff and her guests, she glimpsed an upstairs gallery.

“How do I get up there?” she asked the guard.

“I don’t really think...”

“She said I could go anywhere, as long as I didn’t leave the castle.”

“I suppose it’s your head –

“...yes, it is...”

“....up there then, those stairs.”

As Meg ducked inside – wincing as the door creaked slightly – the room was silent. Then, with a snap, Isabella let the parchment she was reading roll shut.

“There must be some mistake. He has no reason to do this - let me send word....”

“His instructions are quite clear, Lady Thornton.” The man who spoke was bearded and heavy-set, with a guarded expression. “And I think you know why – the balls up you made of the ransom. His Highness doesn’t feel you’re up to the responsibilities of the position any longer.”

“Because I’m a woman!” snapped Isabella.

“No: because you failed.” The other had silvering hair, sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. “Consider yourself lucky, you get to stay on. If you were a man, you’d probably find your head on a pike, but he clearly has a soft spot for you. So come on. Hand it over.”

He held out his hand, gesturing for the chain of office Isabella wore. But Isabella stepped away, pacing to the window.

“Lady Thornton, there’s no need to make this difficult.”

“God’s balls, Wenneval, just take it.”

The slighter man reached Isabella in two strides.

“This can be as ugly or as painless as you wish,” he purred.

Meg hadn’t seen him draw the dagger that pricked Isabella’s side.

“Murdac....” cautioned the other.

“Thank you.” He walked back to Wenneval, chain dangling from spread fingers. “Sometimes the direct approach works wonders.”

“And sometimes it breeds dissent like a corpse does maggots. Lady Thornton, let’s move on, I think you’ll find...”

Meg didn’t wait to hear any more. She backed out of the gallery, her mind whirling. With Isabella out of favour there could be some chink to exploit, some advantage for her, if only she could find it. She needed to think.

She hurried back to the tower, the guard dogging her steps.

                                         -----------------------------------------------------------------------

“What do you think’s going on?” asked Allan, as the others joined him and John by the square.

“I don’t know,” Robin said, keeping his hood low and watching the castle courtyard. “Something’s up. Too many people in the Great Hall for us to get out of the tunnel; we’ll have to find another way in, or go back there and wait for things to quieten down.”

“I don’t think they will – looks like they’re planning a feast.” Allan pointed to the farmers’ carts trundling along the lane to the kitchens. Some were already starting to unload.

“Or a wedding – look.” Robin pointed to the rider just then clattering past them. “I think that’s Rede.”

They watched the man dismount, toss his reins to a guard, and stride up the stairs into the castle.

“Looks a swine,” muttered Allan. “So what do we do now? If we wait, we could be too late. We can’t let them marry her off, Giz will – well, I dunno what he’d do but...”

“Don’t worry, we won’t let that happen.”

“They could be doing it right now, for all we know,” put in Much. “All it takes is a priest, and a bride and a groom of course. And witnesses – so maybe not right now, but you get my meaning. I say we can’t wait either.”

Robin held up a hand for quiet, thinking.

“We need to know more. Tuck, you and Kate go back to the tunnel. Get as close as you can, try to hear what’s going on. Allan, John, go and help old Gus unload his cart, he hasn’t got his son with him today. Pick up whatever gossip you can from the servants.”

“Where will you be?”

“Here, for now. Much and I will keep an eye on things.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard that before,” groused Allan, eyeing Robin’s bow.

“Just go,” urged Robin. “We’re wasting time.”

                                       ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time, they locked the door.

With nothing to do, and only bleak thoughts for company, Meg begged the guard to fetch a seamstress – embroidery would be better than nothing. But he refused. The positioning of her window was frustratingly angled so that throughout the day she could hear activity in the courtyard, but was unable to see. Once, she thought she heard Rede’s voice. After that, whenever steps passed her door she had to force herself not to shrink and hide. Mid-afternoon, someone came. She recognised Isabella’s voice. It would be just like her, Meg realised, to accompany Rede here to gloat and then to leave her alone with him.

But Isabella was alone. And with none of her usual composure, ducking into the room almost furtively.

“Quickly – pack your things,” she demanded, the moment the door was closed.

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Just do it,” snapped Isabella. “We’re leaving. If Rede gets his paws on you, I’ll never get you away.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” Meg grabbed up her bag and threw it on the bed.

“Unless you want to meet the prince with only that dress you’re wearing, I suggest you hurry. Questions later. You have five minutes.”

“This is becoming a habit,” muttered Meg, complying.

Her thoughts were racing. She had no idea why Isabella would take her to the prince, but she knew that whatever would get her out of this tower and away from Rede was a chance she was happy to take.

“I assume you want to plead your case, but why take me?” she asked, shoving her gowns, phials and Matilda’s pouch of herbs into the bag.

“Because you, my dear girl, are bait. With you, I can make Prince John realise I have the means at my fingertips to lure both my brother and Robin Hood to justice.”

Meg paused. She turned to face Isabella, incredulous.

“Justice? You think that what you’re doing, you think that the way Prince John uses...”

“Save it – we’ve a long ride ahead, if I get bored enough we can debate the topic as much as you like. But right now I’ve a carriage waiting and the longer it does, the more chance there is that it will draw attention.”

Isabella pulled the bag closed and shoved it up against Meg’s chest.

“Well I won’t be of any use in London. Surely you would need to set your trap here?’

“And have those two braggarts who came this morning claim it as their victory? No, this will be my project alone, and London will do nicely. It will serve better, I think – draw Robin Hood out of his familiar territory, get him on the wrong foot. And convenient for Guy, too - he is, after all, heading south. A small detour to London won’t inconvenience him, although losing his head might, a little.”

Chuckling at her own wit, Isabella bound Meg's wrists and led her out into the corridor. The guard had been dismissed; Isabella hurried her along the passage-ways and out a postern for which she produced the key.

“I didn’t hand them all over, naturally.”

She bundled Meg into the carriage, pulling the door closed behind them and tapping the ceiling to signal the driver. They lurched forward. The interior was stuffy, the heavy drapes allowing little air-flow. As the horses clopped through the streets, Meg could tell from the noise level when they entered the square. Surreptitiously, she moved the drape beside her a little, so that her profile would be visible to the street. But a moment later, Isabella leaned across, twitching the curtain back into place.

“That would be foolish,” she snapped. “You’re as likely to be seen by someone who’ll send you straight back where we’ve come. Pity though, in a way. If Robin did come for you, with some heroic rescue in mind, I was ready for him.”

She lifted her skirt a little, drawing a dagger from its sheath and showing Meg the discoloured tip.

“Poison!”

“No longer having any guards forces one to think creatively. I was quite taken with the idea, really. I’m sure Prince John would be just as happy to receive Robin Hood dead as alive. And if Robin made himself too tiresome, I could always nick you – just a fraction” – Meg cringed away, as Isabella scribed a small arc in the air near her face – “and leave my brother with nothing left of you but a grave to mourn by. Would he weep for you, do you think? I believe he would.”

Meg sank back against the seat, despairing. She’d no wish to be seen now, and prayed that when she’d lifted the drape briefly there’d been no one there who might have recognised her.

The carriage rolled on, across the drawbridge, leaving Nottingham behind and heading towards the forest.

                                            ---------------------------------------------------------------------

_Three more days._ Just three more days, and they’d be in Canterbury. Not that he'd been counting.

It had been harder to leave Meg this time. So many misunderstandings had beset them that Guy had begun to realise how fragile it all could be. He could so easily ruin it; he almost had already.

When Meg had received him so coldly, at first, in the cave, it had thrown him right back: Marian, always stiff in his embrace, as if his touch repulsed her. He, besotted, unable to let her go. One day in particular – holding back one minute, in his arms the next. Beautiful, deceitful Marian – a diversionary tactic, something he should have seen at the time, if he’d ever been able to think clearly around her. He couldn’t make that mistake again; he couldn’t make any, if it meant he might lose Meg.

Then there was the fact she was still at Matilda’s. Despite Robin’s promise, it meant she was vulnerable. It kept him awake nights, knowing he couldn't be there to protect her himself.

All of which, Guy knew, made him less than pleasant company. Archer tried his patience on a daily basis. He drank a little more than was wise, and had exchanged harsh words with more than one of Felix’ men over dice. So this evening he sat apart, oiling his sword, watching the groups gathered round the fires, smoke and laughter drifting across the clearing like the mist of a closing night. He sensed someone beside him; glanced up to see Hubert, cloth and blade in hand, taking a seat beside him.

“Take as much care of a woman as you do of that and you’ll be a happy man,” he observed, without preamble.

“Let me guess, Archer?” Guy grunted.

“I asked him; you’ve not been yourself. That business with Bertrand the other night – if Raoul hadn’t stepped in…”

“He asked too many questions,” Guy said bluntly.

“Perhaps.” Hubert kept his eyes on the sword. ‘Remind me, Sir Guy, if I ever want to know anything about your past, to restrict my questions to….”

“And do you?”

Hubert glanced up, thoughtful, detecting a note of something else beneath the challenge. He went back to his task - finished cleaning the blade, and took the stopper from a small flask of oil. Tipping some onto the cloth, he wiped it along the metal with long, smooth strokes.

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “It’s not a man’s past – good or ill – which defines him. So I’ll not judge. It’s what he does with this day, and the next, that counts.”

Guy considered this.

“Then it would be easy to deceive you,” he observed. “You know some of the things I’ve done. So how do you know I’m not a spy for Prince John?”

Hubert’s bark of laughter drew glances from the men.

“Well, if you were, that remark would make you either the cleverest or the most foolhardy of them, I’m not sure which.” Then the archbishop grew serious. “I don’t deny we live in a world of self-interest and deceit. Which is why I need men around me I can trust. So what would you say if I was to ask you to stay on, in Canterbury? I can think of a number of ways you could be useful to me.”

“This is - unexpected,” Guy stalled.

_Meg…..my sweet Meg…how will I ever be with her?_

“Think about it. And if it’s your lady you’re thinking of, for God’s sake man, go and get her,” Hubert said, answering his hesitation. “We’ll find you somewhere to live – either lodgings in the town, or depending on what you do, perhaps rooms at the castle.”

Guy turned the offer over in his head, a cautious hope building.

“We’re not wed yet,” he said.

Hubert rolled his eyes.

“Best you go now then. I think we can manage without you, you’re more there than you are here anyway.”

Guy put his sword aside, and turned to face the archbishop.

“I’d still like an answer to my question. How do you know?”

The archbishop set his own blade down.

“Because if I am wrong about you, then so are a lot of others – Raff, Felix, Raoul…. that quicksilver brother of yours. And because you were with Robin – there’s few men I trust more than him.” Then Hubert grinned. “And after all of that, if I am wrong, then I believe there must be some divine plan in operation about which I know nothing – and who am I to stand in the way of that?”

Hubert tidied away his weapons kit and stood, gesturing towards the fires.

“Shall we join them? Let’s get something to eat – you can be away in the morning.”

                                                ------------------------------------------------------------------

As they left Nottingham, Meg watched Isabella raise her hem and again draw out the dagger. She rested the hand holding it in her opposite palm, wary of the tip, her eyes on Meg. The carriage rumbled along. Meg had no idea of the distance they’d come, but she began to hope they might pass through the forest unnoticed. She tilted her head back, feigning sleep. If Isabella thought her asleep it might give her an opening. One chance: all she needed, and all she would get.

She tensed, hearing noises; a scuffle outside, and the carriage swayed to a halt. Isabella gripped her bound wrists, holding the dagger above them. Meg whimpered.

Robin swung the door open, one hand on the frame; with the other he pushed back his hood.

“It’s poison,” croaked Meg immediately, fixing her eyes on Robin’s.

“Oh,” said Much from behind him. “That’s not good.”

“No Much, it isn’t.”

“Well don’t just stand there,” crowed Isabella. “Come in and shut the door. It’s time we had a chat, you and I.”

“Master, you can’t….”

“It’ll be alright, Much.”

“But you can’t – I mean, if she so much as nicks you with that….”

Robin stepped into the carriage and, keeping his eye firmly on Isabella, pulled the door closed on Much’s protests.

“Alright,” he said, “what would you like to talk about, Isabella?”


	17. Chapter 17

“It’s been too long Robin,” purred Isabella. “Disappointing, I have to arrange something like this to have the pleasure of your company.”

“Let Meg go,” he said. “You have me, you’ve no further use for her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve plans for both you and….”

Meg jumped.

A blade slashed through the drape behind Isabella, and hands thrust through the opening, looping a rope around her neck. In the moment of shock that immobilised Isabella, loosening her grip, Meg wrenched free and twisted back from the flailing blade. Isabella dropped it, both hands clawing at her neck. Her breaths coming shallow and fast, Meg kicked the dagger away. It slid under the opposite seat. Robin grabbed Isabella’s wrists and bound them.

“I’ve got her,” he said, through the curtain.

The rope loosened and slid off her neck. Robin bent and retrieved the dagger.

“Put that away,” shuddered Meg.

Robin handed it to her and crouched down before Isabella.

“Excuse me.” He glanced up from beneath his fringe as he lifted the hem of her skirt and undid the straps holding the sheath in place.

“Oh no you don’t,” he grinned, grabbing her ankle, anticipating the kick.

He sheathed the dagger, then opened the door just enough to hand it out to someone. Closing it, he freed Meg and then sat back, opposite Isabella.

“Now. That chat you wanted to have? How about we start by you telling me what’s going on in the castle. All that activity, was it just your schemes for Meg or is there something else happening?”

“Is this really necessary, now that I’m unarmed?” Isabella held up her bound wrists. “Free me and I might be more inclined to talk.”

Robin complied.

“Well?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Talk.”

“You never used to be this abrupt.”

“That was before you decided to fleece the poor and King Richard alike, the same as your predecessor.”

‘What harm have I done, really? Raised a few taxes here and there…”

“…you abuse your position, just like the rest of them,” accused Meg. “Executing without trial, squeezing the villagers for taxes and bullying them if they can’t pay…”

“Quite the little bleeding heart, aren’t we?” sneered Isabella. “Does she need to be here?”

“No reason not, this is hardly a tryst.” Robin looked amused.

Isabella gave Robin an intense look.

“It could be.”

Meg snorted.

“I don’t believe you!” exclaimed Robin.

“No – listen.” Isabella reached out and grabbed his hand. “You’re right, things are happening in Nottingham. I’ve fallen foul of Prince John because I botched the ransom theft. He’s sent two constables to replace me, Wenneval and some Murdoch, Murdac or something. That’s why I left. I’m afraid Robin. I planned to use Meg to capture you and Guy as a way to win back favour, but it’s pointless really, I do see that – the prince was never going to leave a castle like that for long in the hands of a woman.”

“So what will you do?”

“Let me join you.” Isabella leaned forward, stroking her thumb up and down the back of his hand. “You saw what it could be like, once, you and me. Only this time, no pressure. I’ll just be one of the gang, if that’s what you want. Or - when you get tired of that little shrew…”

“Leave it Isabella – nothing’s going to happen between you and me.”

She dropped his hand and sat back, considering.

“No need. As I’ve said, I’ll join you in any capacity you see fit.”

“You, live in the forest like we do? I can’t see it.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” Isabella snapped. “I’ve got no more choices. How long do you think I’ll last in Nottingham, before they decide to get rid of me?”

“Why would they?”

“Scapegoat. You watch, the first thing that goes wrong and I’ll be the one they hold up to Prince John as responsible.”

Meg glanced at Robin. He was considering this, stroking his lower lip.

“You can’t be serious…” she put in. “She’ll betray you, any of us, at the first opportunity. It’s a ruse, a way for her to win back favour.”

“Maybe, but what if she’s right?”

“Then it isn’t your problem,” Meg said harshly. “She’s in no immediate danger, she’s able to come and go as she pleases. If she wants to, all she need do is get in a carriage and leave. She can go anywhere, it doesn’t need to be here. Think about what she did to Guy, and me – she’s no loyalty to anyone but herself, she would be your ruin.”

“You’re making this personal,” interrupted Isabella, “instead of seeing the benefit…”

“You’ll say you know your way around the castle, but so does Guy.”

“ – when he’s here.”

“We don’t need you.”

“Ladies.” Robin held up a hand for silence. He knitted his fingers in front of him, frowning down at them. After a few moments he looked up at Isabella.

“Meg’s right,” he said quietly. “You’re not our responsibility. I have the gang to think of, Isabella – you’re a risk I can’t take. I’m sorry.”

‘So you’re just going to send me back there?”

“I’m afraid so.” Robin stood, opening the door. “Allan and Much will see you to the edge of the forest.”

“Robin – she has some keys on her that might be useful.”

The outlaw held out a hand; sulkily, Isabella turned them over.

“Don’t think the locks won’t be changed by tomorrow.”

“Always a pleasure, Isabella,” grinned Robin, holding out a hand to help Meg down.

A kick landed on the closing door. The outlaw gestured the driver to turn back towards Nottingham.

“You heard?” he said to Allan and Much. Then, to Meg, warmth in his eyes: “Welcome home. I hope you’ll stay with us this time.”

“I will.”

“Good. I promised Guy I’d look out for you, and you’ve been nothing but trouble.”

With a wink, he shouldered his bow and led them all back into the forest.

                                                --------------------------------------------------------------

She was there this time, fidgeting, waiting for him to dismount. He swung down, clasping her hands. Joy in her eyes, laughter on her lips; how had he stayed away?

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, stroking her face with the backs of his fingers.

Then, urgently, his arm about her waist, pulling her into his embrace.

“Leave it out, you two,” complained Allan from near the fire, as the kiss became prolonged. “Remember the rest of us here?”

Guy lifted his head, recalling himself.

“I haven’t missed any of you.” He walked over to the gang, keeping hold of Meg’s hand.

“Not even a little?” from Robin.

“Some gratitude,” Allan went on, grinning, “she wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for us.”

This had Guy’s attention.

“What?”

“The Sheriff nabbed her – Isabella knew where she was all along, and….”

“I’m fine,” interrupted Meg. “I’ve been back for days, and I’m here to stay.”

She squeezed Guy’s hand reassuringly.

“Right, is anyone ready to eat?” Much lifted the rack holding a row of skewers; the fat dripped and sizzled in the fire.

“Squirrel kebabs?” Guy frowned.

Meg giggled.

“Pork, I’ll have you know. John caught a boar yesterday. We took most of it to the villages, but there was enough left to make these.”

“So, where’s Archer?” Robin asked round a mouthful, as they all ate by the fire.

“The ransom hadn’t reached Canterbury when I left. It will have by now, but I’ll wager Archer’s staying on. Hubert will have found other work for him.”

“Yet he sent you back?” Robin gave him a knowing look.

“I’ve business here,” was all Guy said.

“Doing what?” asked Much. “What could you possibly – ow, what was that for?”

He scowled at Allan.

“Well, it’s a long ride. How many days?” Robin changed the subject.

“Too many. I’m glad to be back.”

Guy glanced down at Meg, who was licking fat off her fingers. The swift surge of tenderness she provoked made him wish they could be alone, right there and then. They needed to talk. Now that he had Hubert’s blessing, and some security for the immediate future…that was the problem though, wasn’t it? Nothing was ever simple. All this meant was that their aims, the goal which Hubert, and Robin, and he himself now worked towards – the king’s return – was the same event which could easily render Meg a widow.

He had tried to kill the king – twice. The Lionheart was many things, but a man who could order the death of more than two thousand Saracens was not a merciful one. Was he right to gamble Meg’s future on the whim of a king who had every right to condemn him?

The conversation had moved on. Meg leaned against him, and they half-listened though in fact little registered with Guy – distracted by her closeness, content – until Kate challenged:

“So, where will he sleep?”

“Archer’s bed, he’s not using it,” Guy said immediately.

He felt Meg tense; he’d known this would hurt her. He didn’t want them to be apart either, but had thought this over, and knew it would be best. He wasn’t sure how much longer his restraint would last and he couldn’t allow that, not until things were settled. Not until he knew.

Kate muttered something about betting he wouldn’t stay there, but Guy was too preoccupied to care. At last the outlaws drifted to bed. When they were alone, Guy shifted Meg aside and fed the fire. He went to his things and fetched a blanket. Arranging it on the ground, he sat and leaned back against the log, cradling her beside him. They gazed quietly into the flames, fingers entwined; his lips grazed her temple. More tired than he realised – he hadn’t exaggerated, he’d pushed his horse to the limits and still the ride had taken days - Guy closed his eyes, resting his cheek against her hair. 

Woke much later, sprawled across the blanket, his head in her lap. Stars blurred overhead. Dazed, he sat up. The fire had died, and Meg was shivering.

“Why’d you let me sleep? You’re freezing,” he grumbled, taking her hands and rubbing them.

“I didn’t want t..to wake you.”

“Foolish girl.”

“Besides – it was the only w…way I could stay with you.”

Guy clambered to his feet; he was stiff, aching in places he knew would hurt more tomorrow. He helped Meg up, and then led her to her pallet. He shrugged out of his jacket and lay down.

“Come on,” he murmured, lifting the blanket and gesturing for her to join him. “You need to get warm. We’ll leave the curtain raised, Kate can be damned if she wants to make something of it.”

It wasn’t a sound sleep. Near dawn, Guy stirred and sat up. He edged carefully over Meg, stifling a groan at abused muscles. Despite what he’d said, for her sake he would avoid any unpleasantness. He rearranged the blanket, stood looking down for a few moments, then in the chill half-light crossed to Archer’s pallet and dropped onto it, asleep within minutes.

He woke late, to an unusual silence in the camp. Trudging out to the barrel, he saw no one was about except Meg and Allan. The shock of the water stung his face as he washed.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, shaking drops from his hair.

“Gone to Nottingham. Prince John’s sent a couple of watchdogs….”

“What’s happened to Isabella?”

“Still there, but she’s been replaced. The prince wasn’t happy that she lost the ransom. That’s why Isabella grabbed Meg, some wild plan to lure you and Robin to the prince and get back in his favour. Might have worked, too. You’re lucky Much got a glimpse of them as they left the castle, or she’d have been in all sorts of trouble by now.”

Guy went to his bag and pulled out a clean shirt.

“So, what are you still doing here?”

“Whaddya think? Someone had to stay.” Allan stood up, and dropped the piece of wood he’d been whittling into the fire. “Never could get a decent piece out, not like Will. Anyhow, I’m off.”

“Some chaperone,” Guy observed, pulling the shirt on over his head.

“I’m only going before you tell me to get lost. Anyway, why do you think Robin chose me? He knew I’d be useless at it. Just as well, really,” Allan said smugly over his shoulder, walking away. “Don’t leave your clothes lying round next time, Giz.”

He waved a hand toward Guy’s jacket, now draped over a pole. With a rueful smile, Guy put it on and joined Meg by the fire. He looked in the pot, lifting a ladle of the contents. Dropping it back, he picked up an apple instead.

“It’s not bad, you know. Not with a bit of honey.”

“This’ll do,” mumbled Guy, round a mouthful.

He paced to the edge of the camp, gazing out. It would be miserable here in winter; he wondered how the gang tolerated it. Mist hung between the stripped-back trees; the mulch on the forest floor was pungent with damp, and droplets of moisture clung to his sleeve. He turned back, saw Meg’s face pinched with cold despite her cloak. Tossing the apple core, he bent and fed the fire until it was a healthy blaze again.

“What’s going on?” she asked, as he sat down.

“Allan’s about as subtle as a punch to the face.” Guy hesitated, eyeing the dreary camp. “But here - this isn’t…Meg, I wish….”

He fell silent, unable to say what was in his heart, unable to articulate how far removed this was from all he wished he could give her.

“What is it?” she asked, twisting to face him, crumpling the edge of the cloak in her fist. “If it’s bad news, just hurry up and tell me. You’ve been different this time. What’s happened? Is there someone else?”

Guy stared at her, saw in her face the struggle to remain composed, her voice stumbling over the brittle words.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” he rumbled, cupping her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks. “Meg – you’ve no idea, my heart. Even now…” he stopped, and took a calming breath. He could see it flicker in her eyes then too, an awareness of the empty camp, and the pallet not ten steps away from them. “Sweetheart, we need to talk. I’m trying to find the courage to tell you things I’m afraid will drive you away, when what I really want is…”

His words dried up. Funny, how once mention of marriage had tripped so easily off his tongue. Now, when it mattered most, and what he said instead was:

“Meg – if the king returns, there’s every chance I’ll hang for treason.”

She stared at him.

“This time, you have to know,” he went on. “I’ve made two attempts on the king’s life.”

“I knew about one,” she murmured. “They don’t say much about it, but I’ve heard about Acre.”

“Then you know: you could be a widow within days, if he ever comes back.”

“So wait.” Meg lifted a hand to cover one of his, smiling. “Is that a proposal? If it is, it must be one of the worst I could imagine.”

She stifled a laugh.

“Actually it’s not my worst,” Guy muttered, remembering.

His hands dropped away. _Will you. Marry. Me_. Desperation and force bound up together; nothing there of love.

“What?” Meg was startled. “I didn’t know you’d asked her to marry you.”

“More than once.”

“Well, now this is your worst,” grumbled Meg.

“Meg…I’m sorry….”

Guy rubbed a hand across his face; he couldn’t have made a bigger mess of this if he’d tried.

“Shhhh – it’s fine.” She was quiet, thinking. Then: “You must have loved her very much.”

Reminded of those times, of dark years in the grip of something he couldn’t name, he wouldn’t call it love – not now. It was nothing like what he felt for Meg, who accepted him and believed in him and trusted him beyond what he would have thought possible.

“No,” he murmured, brushing the hair back from her face, “ _this_ is love.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

‘Well,” teased Meg, “the proposal’s improving…”

Got no further, as he dipped his head to kiss her. A brushing of lips that soon deepened, her soft moan nipping at the edges of his self-control. It would be easy, so easy, to take those ten paces. But no - not here, not now.

With a ragged exhale he drew back, resting his forehead against hers.

“Is that yes, then?”

“Of course it is.”

“Even though…”

“If this is the only way I can shut you up….”

She kissed him again, one that tasted of happiness and that dared him to hope. Perhaps he would find a way. And if not – then they would have _this_ , and it would both be enough, and never enough

                                                 -----------------------------------------------------

This time, he came alone.

Grunting with effort, he moved the gravestone and descended, in the flickering light counting the alcoves along the tunnel until he reached the correct one. Guy hauled out the boxes of supplies stored there. The side recesses hadn’t been paved; he set to work removing the hard-packed dirt on the floor, scraping it aside until an opening appeared. He’d instructed the builders to install a compartment below-ground here that no one, not even the Sheriff, had known about. Once he’d silenced the workers, his secret had been assured.

Brushing off dirt, Guy took out his key and unlocked the hatch. Lifting it aside, he sat back, irrationally relieved to see it still there. Common sense told him no one could possibly have known of it, that it was safer from thieves here – in a disused tunnel known only to a handful of people – than anywhere else, but even so, as he lifted the lid of the small chest and rolled the coins through dirt-stained fingers, that sliver of fear receded.

He had Marian – as the Night Watchman - to thank, both for his substantially reduced wealth, and for the fact he’d taken extra steps to protect whatever was left, and what he’d managed to rebuild. It was just as well, given the reversals of fortune he’d suffered. It was little enough. What had once seemed adequate, when in possession of an estate and in secure – if dangerous – employment, now seemed as if it could never be enough. Especially, and he knew this first-hand, as those with any wealth were subject to more voracious tax demands than any of the peasants he’d once bullied to meet Vaisey’s quotas.

Pulling a couple of pouches from his belt, Guy began filling them. It hadn’t been easy, deciding to deplete his resources, but he wouldn’t take Meg to start a new life with nothing to show but a horse and a few sets of clothes. Nor would he have her live like a peasant. If that were so, they’d be better off here, where they had friends and at least knew they’d never starve, whatever the scarcity and dubious nature of the food.

But as Hubert had assured them lodgings, he’d decided to take enough to keep them comfortable through a season or two. With the pouches full, he put them to one side and burrowed down beneath the coins to find something else. His fingers touched the velvet. Dark green, the same material as a dress she’d often worn; a small pouch, with a woven drawstring. He closed his hand around it, remembering. Felt the old tendrils of grief reach out for him - but this time they subsided, smitten by the absence of guilt.

The ring would be perfect; he knew Ghislaine would have wanted Meg to have it. Tucking it safely away, Guy secured the chest and replaced it in the compartment. Covering and re-locking it once more, he rose and left the tunnel.

                                                 ------------------------------------------------------------

“So you’re really going through with this? It’s not too late to change your mind,” said Matilda, as she finished securing the veil beneath a simple floral crown.

She stood back, tilting her head critically.

“Wait. There.”

“Thank you, for all of this,” Meg said, gesturing to the dress Matilda’s daughter had worn at her own wedding: the fabric a soft cornflower blue, an embroidered girdle slung low on her hips.

“Well, Robin’s always had a way of coaxing what he wants out of folk, ever since he was a lad. I should have known better by now, I suppose.”

They had more than that to thank him for, Meg knew. Most of all the fact that she was standing here, given a fire-warmed room in which to prepare, while below she could hear items being shifted – with the occasional shout and crash – as preparations were made in the hall. The aroma of roasting and baking spread up from the kitchens, where the loyal Locksley cook toiled, until it seemed to seep out from the cracks of the castle walls.

Robin had said this was his gift to them, for today, and the two following. Growing up, he’d played here often, a home of distant relatives. The lord had lost his sons to the crusades, and not long ago been discovered dead here, alone. With no clear succession, until either Richard or John heard of it and chose how to dispose of it, the castle sat vacant.

“He’d have loved to see it made use of this way,” Robin had assured them. “Always enjoyed a good celebration, did Lord Savell.”

“Then he’d have wanted us to enjoy the contents of his cellar as well, wouldn’t he?” Allan asked.

“Most definitely.”

Nor was that all. One afternoon, the outlaws had returned to camp with a chest full of her gowns and belongings.

“How did you….”

“We couldn’t let you start out with nothing, could we?” Robin had said.

“And it’s hardly thieving when it’s your own stuff,” Allan added.

Earlier Guy had asked her if she’d wanted to visit her father, to have him involved.

“No, he’s lost that right. Besides, I couldn’t trust him – he might try and stop us, it isn’t worth the risk.” Guy had looked relieved.

So they’d made it safely to the day, and all was almost ready. Now Matilda glanced at the door, listening.

“Right, we may not have long. Before you go, I’ve been thinking that with you not having a mother, there might be some things you need to ask about…. so, does that blush mean you’re embarrassed to be asked, or that he’s already taken enough liberties to set your mind at rest?”

“Some,” murmured Meg, feeling her face grow hotter.

“I suspected,” Matilda said, resigned. “No matter, he’d be a rare man not to try. I just hope you know what you’re doing, lass – and by that I don’t mean in his bed.”

“I do, Matilda. He’s changed; I know he’s done terrible things, but….”

A tentative knock interrupted her.

“What is it?” Matilda called.

Much poked his head in.

“Robin said to tell you – oh. My lady - you look…may I just say, you look stunning,” he flustered.

“Just Meg, Much. But thank you,” she laughed.

“Robin said?” prompted Matilda into a lengthening pause, as Much continued to gaze at Meg.

“Oh, right,” he said. “Robin wanted me to tell you everything’s done, and that when you’re ready you can come down.”

“And Guy?”

“Waiting, my l….Meg.”

“I’ll come now then. Am I ready Matilda? Do I look…”

“You heard him – now come on.”

The outlaws had transformed the hall. Herbs had been sprinkled across the rush mats, releasing scent as they were crushed underfoot. A fire blazed in the great hearth, and candles raided from every shelf and nook in the castle gave the room a rich glow. Greenery had been borrowed unsparingly from Sherwood. At the far end of the hall, a silk canopy had been raised – no doubt left over from the days when the Savell family had held feasts, and probably responsible for some of the bumps and crashes she’d heard.

Guy waited there. Glad of John’s supporting arm – she’d been afraid he might refuse her this, but after only a small hesitation he’d put aside his misgivings and agreed - she went to him. If Guy came toward her a little sooner than was proper – reaching for her hand – she didn’t care, so glad was she to feel his fingers curl around her own, and to see in his eyes the love she felt for him so abundantly returned.

Tuck led them through their vows, and spoke the words that joined them. And when Guy lifted her veil they kissed, tenderly, lingering just a moment more than was proper.

Then there was music, and dancing, and food, and warm spiced wine that flowed well into the night, courtesy of Lord Savell and Allan’s dedicated pillaging of the cellars. Of necessity it was a small gathering, only the most trusted villagers - those who would keep it secret, and not allow their dislike of Guy to outweigh their loyalty to Robin. Meg didn’t care. For her, it was perfect, other than wishing Archer were there – he was, discounting Isabella, the only family that Guy had left.

She couldn’t contain her joy, basking in the indulgent smiles of everyone she spoke to.

“You’ve probably had enough of that,” Allan teased, trying to take her goblet. “Any more and Giz will have to carry you up those stairs. Which’ll kill him, and you don’t want that, especially not tonight.”

Bless him, attributing her giddiness to the wine, Meg thought, when she could tell by his knowing look that he knew damn well the reason for her heightened colour and occasionally distracted chatter. Once, during the meal, Guy’s hand had come to rest on her thigh; a slight pressure, his thumb stroking the curve of her leg through the gown, and the heat in his gaze when she looked up would have been enough to remind her of his promise to her in the cave, if she’d been in any danger of forgetting.

Her eyes never strayed far from him. He looked relaxed, laughing more than he was wont to do. Until he came face to face with Kate. Meg broke off her conversation with Thornton and edged closer, prepared to intervene. They were slightly off to one side, isolated in an awkward silence.

“Kate,” she heard Guy begin, “all I’ll say is that if I could…”

Kate put up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not the sort of thing you can really apologise for, is it?”

They looked at each other a moment in silence then, glancing round, Kate saw Meg watching them.

“Go on,” she said. “Go to her. There’s at least one person in this world you can make happy, so I suppose that counts for something.”

It was the closest thing to a blessing they would get from Kate.

He didn’t leave her side after that, and knew before she did the moment she was ready to leave. A few hugs, a few ribald comments – and Robin, off to one side, saying quietly to Guy “Don’t worry, we’ll keep watch. No one will come.” Then they left the hall, with the minstrels strumming a quiet ballad, and Much picking over the trenchers for the last of the food, and went up the winding stone staircase linked hand to hand, unwilling to break their hold.


	18. Chapter 18

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” she murmured, leaning on the embrasure and looking out.

Guy circled his arms around her waist. She pressed back against his warmth, as a zephyr of night air chilled her skin. The castle had fallen silent; high above the forest it was just the two of them, poised between moonlight and firelight.

“What’s that?” Meg asked, pointing to flickers of light down amidst the trees.

“Allan and John are in the gatehouse, everyone else has left. But the others are keeping watch. It pays to be careful, with so much activity in an abandoned castle there could be wagging tongues.”

Meg found the sight comforting, the watch-fires like tiny beacons of affection out in the dark. She felt suffused with contentment; a feeling that intensified, as Guy lifted her hair aside and began pressing his lips against her neck. She’d been so aware of him during the feast, each touch of his hand, each grazing kiss. It was no different now. But as she turned in his arms, it was the tenderness in his eyes that drove her to touch him, wanting to be closer. She reached up to caress his face, smoothing the stubble beneath her fingers.

“I couldn’t bear to be without you, Meg,” he said hoarsely. “Not now, not ever.”

His hair fell forward as he bent to kiss her; lips stroking hers, undemanding.

“Each time I thought I’d lost you…” he murmured, their breaths mingling.

“You didn’t – I’m here, we’re together.”

As if to prove it her hands tugged his shirt free, roaming over his skin, and Guy crushed her firmly against him: thighs, loins, chest. A light probe of his tongue, and when she responded he deepened the kiss, at the same time running his hands over her body, a fervour in him that left her shaken as she began to ache with need for him.

“Please,” she managed, the nearest she could get to a coherent phrase. _Closer_.

He led her to the bed and turned her round, unlacing the back of her dress. His knuckles grazed her back; moments later, and his fingertips whispered across her bare shoulders. He slid her sleeves down, and then those warm, strong hands were running down her arms, caressing her exposed breasts, deft fingers stroking, circling, teasing. His jagged breaths were hot in her ear. And when he sat, turning her slowly to face him - his mouth taking the place of his hands - Meg felt a sharp tug of sensation deep inside, and had to clutch his shoulders and bite her lip to keep from crying out.

Needing to see him – remembering, too, their first night together, and the feel of him in her palm – she pulled him to his feet, urging him out of his shirt. Her breath hitched. Smooth skin, taut muscles, the soft sheen of them in the firelight…her hands skimmed his chest, then ran further down. Paused at his laces, but Guy needed no further encouragement; he dealt with them himself.

“What would you have me do?” she murmured.

“I’d have you trust me,” he whispered, cradling her face. “And I would have you tell me, if anything is too…if you want me to stop, at any time.”

“I do trust you,” she said simply, though not exactly sure of his meaning. “With all of me, with everything.”

“Oh my love…”

His mouth covered hers then, a deep, plundering kiss that turned her inside out with longing. She kicked her gown aside, impatiently, as he laid her back on the bed and began pressing a trail of hot kisses down her abdomen, inflaming her already heightened senses. Soon, she understood what he’d meant. He settled between her thighs and after a moment of shock – she’d never imagined such an intimate act – Meg felt as if her body had taken on a life of its own, with no power or will left in her but to react to the things he was doing to her.

“Guy…”

She moaned his name, helplessly, her hand fluttering on the coverlet. He moved his own - the one which held her hip, which wasn't helping stroke her to oblivion - and reached for hers. She gripped it tightly, needing it to steady her, and held on as moments later pleasure rocked through her, leaving her limp and shaken.

And then, when he came up over her, his arousal pressing between her legs, nothing on this earth could have stopped her opening to him. She forgot to be apprehensive, as he nudged within. Meg moved, restless, and Guy eased his length into her, closing his eyes as she flinched. He held perfectly still. Meg held her breath, focusing on the column of his throat, waiting for the discomfort to subside. Which it did. She released the breath.

And when Guy moved slightly, opening eyes that burned with love for her, the intimacy of the moment overwhelmed her, bringing tears to her own.

“You’re hurting, sweetheart?"

He began to withdraw, but Meg shook her head, holding him there.

Then with long, deliberate strokes, he began to move; each time, as he mostly withdrew, he paused, suspending them both in that place where their eyes met and held, before sinking back in. Meg felt this sweet torment would surely kill her, her breath coming in desperate, shallow pants.

“Don’t hold back on me,” she whispered, between gasps. “Not anymore.”

He made some inarticulate sound then, deep in his throat, and she saw – and felt – the moment that he gave himself over to her. Matching her need with his own, he joined them more urgently, with powerful thrusts… _closer_ ….until with one final surge his release shuddered through him, and Meg, lost in a love so profound she felt it might drown her, clasped the moment to her as fiercely as she held him in her arms.

“My heart…my light….”

Words he whispered against her hair, as they lay tangled together. His hands, softly caressing her back.

“My life.”

Words wrung from him so quietly, as they drifted into sleep, that she might have imagined them.

                                               ------------------------------------------------------------

The sound dragged Guy from slumber, a shutter banging in the rising wind. He resisted, knowing it would require him to move and having no desire to do so. They’d fallen asleep wrapped in an embrace which, now he thought about it, had numbed his left arm. The hand tingled as he flexed it. Easing it out from beneath her, Guy felt Meg stir, reaching for him in her sleep. He drew her close, again, unable to resist the feel of her bare skin against his, the soft press of her breasts enticing a reaction that, along with the cool air on his back and the persistent smack of the shutters, made him realise he couldn’t wait any longer.

It wouldn’t do for Meg to wake, though he craved the look he knew would greet him. It intoxicated him: that mix of joy, and longing, and the deep well of love that somehow he, of all people, had managed to inspire. Desire he’d seen, too. He remembered her eyes, hungry for him in the firelight; then hazed with wonder, lips parted, after he’d trailed his own, still wet from tasting her, up her body… _Christ’s_ _mercy_ , he had to stop this, or he’d need to wake her just to be able to bury himself in her again. Which was out of the question. Though he’d taken as much care as possible, she would probably be tender tomorrow. Stifling a groan, Guy disentangled himself, and rose to deal with the window.

The draught chilled him. With a hand on the shutter, he happened to glance down. Someone kept a solitary vigil: a lone fire still burned. Though there’d be no danger at this late hour, he realised Robin would keep his word. Guy hoped someone had stayed with him. Not a night to be left there alone, dwelling on a lost future, one buried beneath a punishing sun and wind-devilled sands. Abruptly Guy closed the shutters, dropping the bar into place. It would do no good for him to dwell on his part in that, not tonight.

The fire had died to embers. Guy knelt and coaxed it back to flame. Someone – Allan, he thought, who he’d heard complaining about the number of trips up and down the stairs - had left enough fuel for a week. Once there was enough of a blaze to warm the room again, he crossed to the bed and sat down. Meg had rolled onto her back, the cover draped over her hips. She’d flung an arm out, seeking him. Tousled hair fell across one breast; in the fire-glow her skin was honey-gold, begging for his touch. Unable to stop himself, Guy reached out, brushing the back of his hand along her cheek. Her face, so innocent and lovely in repose, stoked a surge of protectiveness in him that was almost painful.

_I can’t believe we’re finally here._

The words had reminded him that something this precious could so easily be taken away - by his own folly, or by fate: the knife edge of a king’s judgement, or any one of a thousand mischances. His life was never far from violence; Hubert’s patronage wouldn’t alter that fact.

Guy looked away, gazing into the flames. He knew what it was like to feel helpless. Facing execution, all those months ago, it had been Robin who’d saved her. _When it comes, it will be very quick._ That was all he’d had to offer, a rough, soldier’s comfort. Then she’d taken a wound for him that could have killed her. And that was all it might take, if the time ever came again: a reflex too slow, a step taken too late.

He glanced back at Meg; it shook him, how deeply she moved him. _Don’t hold back._

Another knife’s edge, how passion had once warped into something that lashed out, that harmed. Tell himself as he might that this would never happen again, he couldn’t entirely banish the fear. It would grip him in the wake of nightmares, or flit like a malignant shadow across his happiest moments. Somehow, Meg knew. She chipped away at his barriers, like tonight. _Don’t hold back_. Accepting him, wanting all of him. Drawing out his love for her until all he’d wanted to do was to show her, to enfold her and fill her with the strength and depth of it, in a way he’d never experienced before.

As he watched, Meg opened eyes misty with sleep. She gazed up with a small, contented smile, curling her hand round his.

“Why are you up?” she asked drowsily.

“The shutters were banging. I’m surprised they didn’t wake you.”

“Are they still there?”

“Hmmmm?”

“The gang, keeping watch.”

“Oh. Robin is.”

“He should get some sleep.” She drew him down beside her. “So should you.”

But there was little chance of that, as she murmured words of love and as they shared kisses – some tender, some heated – until near dawn, when they slept again, not waking until almost noon.

The outlaws had been thorough, making sure food was available. But whoever toiled in the kitchen and laid their places at the table, they did so discreetly, allowing privacy.

“I’m not sure I need any more of that.” Meg put down her wine. “Shall we go for a walk?”

“They’ve stabled us a couple of horses.”

Meg coloured.

“Perhaps not today. Not if you want us to….I mean, later….”

“A walk is probably a good idea then,” he said huskily.

Afterwards he couldn’t have said where they’d gone – paid barely enough attention to get them back – and had only the vaguest recollection of a stream, of a knoll overlooking the castle, of leaves crunching beneath his boots. What had occupied him was Meg’s hold on his arm; the way she melded to his side, the happiness that animated her. At the first sign she was cold, he turned them back to the castle, where baths had been prepared.

“Think how much effort it took to get these filled,” Meg teased, when it looked like they wouldn’t make it into the water. “We should make the most of it, while it’s hot.”

As they sat in tubs in the steam-filled room, hands linked, Meg tilted them, studying the ring he’d given her.

“Did this belong to your mother?’ she asked.

Guy ran his thumb across the surface: simple silver, a dark sapphire entwined in filigree vines. The ring he’d retrieved from the tunnel. Nothing showy; no prominent stone, which had nothing and everything to do with it. He couldn’t give Meg a ring laden with reminders, nor did he want to give her one he’d given another.

“It belonged to my grandmother, but my mother wore it.” He glanced up. “She used to say that to her the vines represented loyalty – weaving through every part of life, that without it even love withers and dies.”

“She was right,” Meg said quietly. “There can be loyalty without love, but never the reverse.”

She climbed out of the tub then, moving round behind him. “No, stay there, just for a while. And lie back.”

She combed her fingers through his hair and then put them to work, kneading his scalp. The warmth of the water, the soothing, circular motions, lulled him almost to sleep. His mind drifted, beguiled by peace and a sense of wellbeing. Finally, snatching his thoughts back, he reached up and caught her hand, drawing it down to kiss her palm.

“Come on,” he rumbled. “Come upstairs.”

Late sun mellowed the room, falling across the bed. Robes tossed aside, Guy drew Meg onto it.

“Seems we were here not so long ago.” A teasing smile.

“There’s nowhere else we need to be. Tell me,” he said, stroking her hair, “was I…careful…enough, last night?”

“Yes. Although I think,” she mused, “that by its nature, it’s not a very gentle activity.”

“Shall we test that out?”

He had to admit, soon after, that she might have been right, given the degree of restraint he was having to exercise. They lay facing each other, hands and eyes devouring, while Guy rocked slowly between her thighs, a motion which he could see was driving them both wild. Her gaze lowered to where their bodies were joined, absorbed by each lazy, shallow stroke.

“All. I need. All of you.”

A ragged whisper. She closed the gap between them, reaching round to draw him in further. Her eyes closed, the new angle sending a tremor through her. His control fled. He rolled her beneath him and, with a groan of pleasure and sweet relief, slid fully inside.

“Minx,” he accused later, as they lay sated on top of the covers.

“I had a point to prove.” Smiling up at him, her face faintly flushed from the energy of their coupling, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

When it was dark, they dined in the hall; they spent the evening on the rug by their fire. He told Meg about his childhood. With a measure of peace now over his parents’ deaths, he found he wanted to reminisce, to relate the tales and all those small details that, when she’d been kidnapped, he thought he’d never share. Not that, before Meg, he’d ever expected or wanted to share them; no one had cared enough to listen.

Next day they took the horses out but, aware of time slipping by – a single night remained – it took only a glance, and Meg’s mischievous smile, to let him know she was as happy to return as he.

The third morning, as he fastened his jacket clasps, Meg was at the window. He thought he saw her surreptitiously brush away tears.

“What is it? You’re unhappy to be leaving Nottingham?” He’d wondered if it was too much to ask, taking her away from all that was familiar.

She nestled back against him.

“No - only this place. I don’t want to leave here.”

“I know, I’ve never….”

The heavy thud of an arrow hitting the shutter cut him short.

“Idiot,” muttered Guy, stumbling back, almost causing them to fall. He was annoyed with himself for it, knowing the aim could be trusted.

At the same time, he heard sounds and voices downstairs - leaving no chance of catching them unawares - and footsteps on the stairs.

“Time to go,” he sighed.

Allan was there when he opened the door, about to knock.

“Carriage is ready,” he said. “You coming?”

The carriage had been Robin’s idea too.

“Savell’s not using it,” he’d said. “Just bring it back one day, call it a loan.”

He was waiting downstairs, with Tuck.

“Your arrow,” Guy said, handing it to him.

“In case you were sleeping late,” grinned Robin.

“Or still trying out your own aim.”

“Shut it, Allan.” He noticed Meg blushing. “Look – tell the others…”

“Tell them yourself, they’re outside. We just thought a crowd might be – you know, a bit much.”

“And you’re not?” snorted Guy.

“Hey Giz, you’ll miss us, you know you will.”

And as they said their goodbyes, and Guy settled into the carriage with Meg, he knew Allan wasn’t wrong. Looking back from the first bend, at the cluster of hands raised in farewell, he saw Meg’s eyes were glistening.

“I’m alright,” she said, wiping them.

“I know,” he said softly, taking up her hands and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Why wouldn’t you be? Never knew a more infuriating bunch, unless you count Archer.”

“Will we see them again?” she asked, smiling through tears.

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly.

And he tucked her up against him, neither inclined to talk, as the carriage rattled south through the forest towards Canterbury.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Wind-driven rain stung her face, and Meg stumbled as someone knocked against her. Ducking beneath an arch, she checked instinctively beneath her cloak for the coins she’d tucked inside the pouch sewn inside her gown.

It had been one of the first lessons learned here, to keep valuables safely out of reach and sight.

They’d been in the city several weeks. The Archbishop owned several lodgings and had settled them, along with Archer, in a house which stood so close against St Peter’s church that its weathered stone tower blocked out most of the meagre light. If Meg stood right by the window, where the cold crept in most brutally, she could see the church’s small garden, its straggle of bushes lining the path to the street. Occasionally, returning from the bustle outside, when the city closed in on her and the quiet of the forest seemed furthest away, she’d crave that glimpse of green for the poor reminder it was of another life.

She was growing accustomed to this one. The excitement of these first weeks had less to do with a new place, and everything to do with Guy. They spent their days apart, as Hubert kept him busy at the castle. Sometimes those duties took him away for days at a time, if the archbishop had communications which required both secrecy and a swift rider. The maid that came several days a week would live-in whenever Guy was absent, but he was never comfortable leaving her. At times Archer, too, would disappear, though whether this was due to the archbishop or his natural restlessness Meg wasn’t sure.

She didn’t mind having Archer around. Some evenings, she’d go upstairs first and as she waited for Guy it warmed her heart to hear the murmur of voices and occasional laughter as the brothers sat by the fire over their mulled wine. But Guy never delayed long coming up. The nights were theirs, and those days when Archer was away. Sometimes, in the market-place, she’d feel her face heat and then not quite know how she came from one stall to the next, consumed as she was by the ache to be with him again.

A second nudge shook Meg out of her distraction. The cover of her basket had been dislodged, and the loaf of bread pilfered. She quickly checked that the other ingredients cook had requested were still there –

“….if it please mi’lady, my babe’s sick…have you coin to spare?”

A woman with a tattered cap and stained teeth nodded at the bundle she carried; a rough hand grabbed hold of hers.

“He came over coughing last night, I couldn’t get him to stop – I need a physician – please, can you help?”

Meg peered closely, but the swaddling obscured the child. Someone touched her shoulder from behind.

“Yes lady – that’s my wee brother, can you help us?”

Meg glanced round, into deceptively mild eyes; a tall, thin-faced girl with a wispy braid, who then brazenly lifted the cover of Meg’s basket.

“I don’t think….ow….”

The other woman tightened her grip on Meg’s hand, and began intently working the ring from her finger. As Meg tried to yank free, the girl pulled on the basket.

“Somebody, help!” she cried, but the weather had driven most customers away and Meg realised this had made the pickpockets, who normally worked quickly and silently among the crowds, much bolder.

It was clear they were determined to get either her ring or the provisions. Meg clamped her fist shut around the older woman’s fingers, eliciting a yelp. At the same time she lunged toward the girl, shoving the basket into her chest. The older one pinched her arm, hard, with her free hand, but instead of releasing her Meg balanced herself and swung the woman round so that her attackers collided.

“Little bitch,” the thief snarled, losing all pretence.

The bundle, moments before supposedly a child, was dropped to the ground. Meg dodged a punch, backed out of reach and then turned and ran, out into the needle-sharp rain. Hearing a shout, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that yellow-teeth had called for help. A large man with a beard and a cowl sloped along beneath the stall awnings, keeping pace with her, waiting to see which way she would go. She saw the flash of a blade, and panicked.

Where to go? She could see the towers of the Archbishop’s castle – Guy would be there, and safety – but between lay a warren of streets and plenty of dark corners where she could be ambushed. Going home was impossible. She shivered at the thought of these people knowing where she lived.

Where was everyone? The weather kept most people indoors but surely….a couple of stall-holders were packing up their battered, end-of-day produce; a few pilgrims, no doubt embracing the weather as extra penance, made their dogged way along the lane toward the cathedral and its shrine. Shielding her face, Meg looked back, and saw a rider coming down the street. Her pursuer saw this and read instantly what she was about. He moved before she could, darting from under cover at the same time as his cronies closed in toward her. The rider was too far away. Her shoes slipped, the cobbles slick from rain and waste. Scrambling upright, grabbing a pole for support, she ducked around the nearest corner and nearly sobbed with relief when she saw the inn. Hauling the door open, she half-ran and half-fell inside.

Noise and warmth assaulted her; the mingled smells of sweat, damp clothes and sour ale almost made her gag, in her overwrought state. A few men near the door looked her over curiously. Before she attracted too much attention, Meg moved forward, composing herself outwardly and trying to appear as if she were looking for someone. When she heard the door open, she ducked behind a group of merchants, but not before the bearded man’s raking glance caught sight of her. Too late, it occurred to Meg that instead of a refuge she’d found herself a nice little trap.

The two women followed their accomplice in, and they split up, making their way through the crowd to where she stood. Meg thought quickly. They must have seen her put items away in her gown, and decided that something worth hiding was worth stealing, along with her ring. Well, that they couldn’t have, but if it would buy her some time…she reached into the sewn fold in her skirt and pulled out her few coins. She felt a pang of guilt, knowing this was a terrible waste, and that it could have been avoided if she’d been more alert. But Guy wouldn’t care a whit, as long as she was safe.

Stepping out, Meg caught the burly man’s eye and opened her palm, displaying the coins. Someone jostled her and before they could be nabbed Meg hurled them straight at the man’s face, striking with enough force to make him stumble and curse. In the ensuing confusion of spilled drinks, shouts, and rival thieves seeing the chance for a quick gain, Meg elbowed her way through the crowd, not daring to look back as she reached the door and tumbled outside.

A hand grabbed her arm and Meg swung round, ready to punch her assailant. Instead, looking up, she saw a face she recognised beneath a rain-sodden hood.

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Archer. “I thought it was you I saw going in there.”

Meg sagged against him, relieved beyond words by the sight of him and the sword at his hip.

“Get me out of here, please.”

Without another word, Archer mounted and helped her up behind him. Meg shook the whole way to the castle gates, with fear and the cold.

“Where are we going?” she managed, through chattering teeth.

“To fetch Guy, of course.”

“No.”

“What?” Archer reined in. “Why not? I don’t think you should be on your own.”

Trembling to her bones, Meg knew this was true.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking Cider to the stables. One of the lads will care for her, then I can take you home I guess.”

Meg nodded. Wisely Archer asked no more questions, not until they were home, with Meg wrapped in a blanket and sitting in front of the fire he’d lit.

“So tell me. What happened?” He crouched in front of her, his fingers loosely knit in front of him.

“And why keep that from Guy?” he asked, when she’d told him, moving back to sit in the chair opposite.

“Because he’d want to move us into the castle. You know the Archbishop’s offered rooms there if we need them.”

“Mightn’t that be better, now,” he asked quietly, “than feeling unsafe whenever you step outside?”

“I’ll not be intimidated,” Meg said hotly. “They don’t know where I live, and there’s no reason it should happen again. It was just a passing incident.”

Archer said nothing, but she didn’t miss his sceptical glance.

“What is it? Do you really think I’m not safe?”

“Not for me to say,” Archer shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, this could have been just a piece of bad luck. But we’ve talked about this before. You get all sorts here, especially at feast times. Most of them are harmless, but it’s not the pilgrims you need worry about…”

“…mostly not,” agreed Meg, thinking that the ones who made her uneasy weren’t the common folk.

Plenty of these came, the millers, the clerks, the cooks and the reeves, men and women from all walks of life and from near and far, leaving their quarrels and their bad habits – for the most part - outside the city walls, along with their donkeys and mules and carts. All this for the chance to make their way up the cathedral’s nave on their knees, there to leave a token or make a prayer at the shrine. In return, those who could afford it would depart with a phial of the blood of St Thomas the Martyr. Many left immediately after, but others returned to make merry in the inns. If the wind blew a certain way, she could sometimes hear their raucous singing in the middle of the night. It made her wonder why they came; they were about as holy as they were sober. They’d soon rack up enough sins to need another pilgrimage.

No, it was the others, the truly devout, who unnerved her the most. Some came in sackcloth and ashes. Others came barefoot, bleeding from the sharp stones along the way, their stoic expressions worn like a badge of pride. Others could have been the man next door, except for a certain careful way they held themselves, with tufts bristling out from the hair shirt beneath their tunics. She preferred these, however, to those who bore a fixed grimace; like a death-mask on parade, these ones. It hurt her face just watching them. But that, she’d learned to avoid. What all these would-be holiest had in common were vague and vacant eyes, where Meg imagined she could see madness distilled if she looked hard enough.

“…and they’re never the problem,” Archer was saying, “it’s the revellers and the troublemakers, the hangers-on who come for a quick profit or a bit of fun on the side.”

“I know, and I’d be careful then,” Meg replied. “I’ll be more careful now. It was just the weather was so awful, and I was daydreaming a bit...”

Archer grinned; Meg threw a cushion at him.

“So why don’t you want to move to the castle?” he asked. “Would it be such a bad thing?”

“I like it here. We have some independence, we’re not caught up in the rules and pretensions of a court. I don’t need a different gown for every day of the week.”

“And you have me.”

“Well, nothing’s perfect.”

“Seriously though, you’re not lonely?”

Meg hesitated, watching the flames. It was true, she did miss the gang. And walking round the town here was nothing like her visits to Nottingham, where she’d routinely be greeted by someone within minutes of arriving. Being recently wed, however, there were compensations; she wasn’t about to admit _that_ to Archer.

“A little,” she confessed instead. “But I have company the days Ellen’s here, and there’s always plenty to do, she can’t do everything…”

“….you’d have a maid in the castle, you wouldn’t have to bother with the market, and chores.”

“Exactly – I’d be bored silly. No, I want to stay.”

“I still think you should tell him. He won’t take kindly to you keeping secrets.”

“Marriage advice?” teased Meg. “Well, if you don’t tell him he won’t know, will he? Besides, I’ve another reason. Hubert’s a prominent man. If the King does return, he might come here. If that happens, I’d sleep easier if we’re not living right under the Archbishop’s nose, and dining at his table. Guy has more chance of escaping notice that way.”

“Fool’s logic Meg,” Archer chided. “He can’t avoid the King forever, you know that. Hey, come on – I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s see if you can beat me at merels for a change.”

They were still playing when Guy returned. Thanks to Archer, she was calmer, and at least waited until he’d removed his dripping cloak before nestling against him. She needed his strength, his comfort. The cook laid out their evening meal and departed. Over dinner Meg was evasive about her day; she shot Archer more than one grateful look, for stepping in with an anecdote when she faltered.

But in bed she couldn’t keep it up any longer. After their lovemaking, Guy cupped her face between his hands and made her meet his eyes.

“What is it?” he rumbled. “What’s happened? Tell me.”

He was silent after she did, absently stroking her arm. After a time she stirred, propping herself up on one elbow, trying to gauge his expression in the candlelight.

She flopped back down, rolling away and onto her back.

“I was right, wasn’t I? You want us to move to the castle.”

“You’d need to go there soon anyway.” Guy turned on his side, idly tracing patterns on her belly with one long finger. “I’d planned to tell you tonight. The ransom will be on the move again soon. To the continent this time, and Hubert needs every man he can spare to accompany it….”

Meg shot upright.

“You’re not serious? He can’t be sending you over there.”

“Shhh – no, of course not. Just as far as the coast. But Archer will be going too, and I can’t leave you here on your own.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, I could have Ellen live here and….”

“No. Don’t ask it Meg.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m no happier about it than you are, but we’ve no real choice.”

“You’re over-reacting,” accused Meg. “I’ll be fine here, with Ellen. Other women do it, they don’t scuttle off to the castle simply because their husbands are away.”

Guy’s face darkened; he sat up, leaning against the headboard.

“No, they have proper households – families, guards, servants – none of which we have,” he snapped.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Meg snatched the sheet up, covering herself. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“It makes no difference, I’d already decided.”

“You can’t do that, not without talking to me about it.” Meg glared at him.

“You’re not thinking straight, woman….that whole thing scared you witless today. Think what might have happened. What if Archer hadn’t turned up? Or if you’d run home, here, only to have them follow and pick you off whenever they chose? You can’t ask me to have something like that weigh on me while I’m away.”

Meg gazed at him, her eyes filling. He was right, about all of it. But she hated the thought of leaving their home. Relenting, Guy reached for her, pulling her against his chest.

“I’m glad you told me,” he murmured into her hair. “I knew something wasn’t right, I was afraid you wouldn’t tell me.”

“I nearly didn’t. But it felt like lying.”

“Dearest heart….”

He lifted her face, nipping softly at her lips; they kissed, tenderly.

“There must be something we can do,” she said, pulling back slightly. “Perhaps I could move temporarily, just use a room there while you’re away?”

“I could ask, I suppose.”

“Of course you can. I’m sure Hubert will help. He has a soft spot for you, I think. His dark knight.” She gave him a hopeful smile.

“Not for much longer,” Guy huffed. “He wants me to wear his uniform this time. Said it would be better if I blended in.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re delivering the ransom to the queen, who’ll take it across the channel.”

“But she’s never met…..oh….she’s heard about you. About Acre.”

“And probably the rest of it. So Hubert thinks it’s best I’m as inconspicuous as possible.”

“Why’s he sending you then, if it will put you directly in danger?” Meg said angrily.

“Because when the time comes – and it is coming, now the ransom is on its way – the more services he can demonstrate that I’ve offered their majesties, the better he hopes it will go for me.”

It sobered her, the realisation that the past and the future were closing in on them from both sides. Suddenly it didn’t matter to her so much where they lived, if only he was with her.

“How long will you be away?” she asked.

“A week, maybe more. With loaded wagons it’ll take a lot longer than a day to get there. Then we’ll have to wait for the bulk of the ransom, and the Queen’s entourage, to arrive from London.”

“And when do you go?”

Meg bit her lip when he told her.

“So soon?”

Guy nodded. He drew her up to sit astride him. They stayed there, distracted, not speaking for a long minute; he held her gaze hotly as their bodies fitted together. She exhaled, unevenly, once he was fully sheathed.

“Not a moment to lose, then,” he said, voice rough with need, his hands resting on her hips.

“No.”

She began to move.

                                                  --------------------------------------------------------------

Rain sheeted across the landscape. Beneath the trees Guy shifted position, droplets trickling down his collar. He glanced round, making sure the men were all in position. Turning back, pressed against a trunk, he watched the slope of the low hill across the road intently for any sign of movement. It had to be soon, or their gamble would have failed. The first outriders had appeared, ostensibly scouting ahead. But their main purpose was to alert those lying in wait that the main column was about to enter the wood.

Guy had been over this terrain repeatedly. Hubert’s orders had been clear, scout the route until he knew it better than he knew his way to the privy; Archer too. Afterwards they’d spent hours closeted with the archbishop, Archer, Felix, Raoul, and himself, putting this knowledge to the test.

The Pilgrim’s Way was like any other: alternating patches of woodland and open meadows. Assessing the dangers, Guy had been uncomfortably aware that any copse or hillock he rode past could offer concealment. But it was this part of the route that offered their enemies the best opportunity to lay an ambush: a patch of road that dipped out of the open, into dense forest, and then out again.

“Too obvious,” Hubert had argued. “They would know we’d anticipate it.”

They’d debated at length the wisdom of splitting their forces.

“I still say it’s our best chance,” Guy urged. “Keep a force in reserve, in that copse about a mile back. They’ll be able to see when the convoy enters the wood, and whether or not an attack force follows them in. We’ll wait out of sight at the front. If troops enter that way, we can box them in.”

“It only takes one scout….”

“Scouts can be dealt with, your Grace,” murmured Felix.

“Then you agree, Count?” Hubert was silent, considering. “Very well, we’ll do it then.”

Guy had told Meg none of this; she’d have been desperate with worry. But it had been the reason he’d wanted to see her safe in the castle, the chance that he wouldn’t return. They had no idea what numbers might come against them.

The idea had germinated long before, during their travels. Although the Black Knights had been disbanded, there would always be conspirators. So while the bulk of the ransom would be too heavily guarded, Guy had convinced Hubert that his share – several shires’ worth – would be enough to lure out the prince’s supporters. It was rumoured he’d gone to France, no doubt to scheme with Philip against King Richard; the theft of a sizeable chunk of the ransom could only further those aims.

When Hubert had sent Guy north, the amount they’d collected had already been conveyed secretly to London, to be stored in the coffers of St Pauls. The cargo which had made the final leg to Canterbury contained enough silver to pass casual inspection, but underneath the chests were filled with pots, and other innocuous household items. It was this fake ransom which they’d loaded up at St Martins church, outside the walls of Canterbury – noting that they were observed – and which was now lumbering into the woods. The trap was ready to be sprung.

Guy looked back again, keeping his shoulder to the bark. Driving rain shrouded the landscape. Everything depended on timing now. They’d covered this eventuality, Hubert and Felix warriors to the bone. With visibility gone, Felix – back in the copse - would have a runner in place to alert him to…

…he heard a cry, Guy swung back in time to see the scout knocked from his horse by an arrow. At first he could see nothing else, but gradually, and then in a concerted charge, mounted figures swarmed down the flank of the hill and into the eaves of the woodland, cutting into the archbishop’s advance guard. Behind him mounts shifted, harness jingled. Guy held up his right hand.

Timing.

“Wait,” he growled.

Men were battling where the road entered the wood. Jarring against the pattering rain came the grate and clang of metal on metal, grunts, cries, wounded horses shrieking. Unrest rippled around Guy.

“Hold,” he said again.

Rushing in too soon would tangle both sides in a melee, losing their carefully planned advantage. Waiting was key: Hubert’s troops cautioned not to break too soon, but after convincing resistance to turn and retreat, fleeing back towards the covered, plodding carts.

There was no signal, simply the din ceased as the guards fell back, and the attacking force funnelled into the woodland in pursuit.

“Now!” yelled Guy, spurring out from cover.

Mud spattered up. Crashing through branches, the horsemen burst out of hiding, a fury of drumming hooves. They made the road and sped past the fallen guards, churning through blood and over corpses. Before the attacking force reached the carts, Guy signalled his men to form a line. They took aim, peppering the enemy ranks with arrows. Horses milled, riders desperately trying to turn or to escape into the dense trees on either side. With cruel precision, after the first two volleys soldiers boiled out of the covered wagons, adding to the confusion. And there, flanked by Raff and Archer, astride his warhorse with his mace swinging - never anywhere but in the middle of the action – was Hubert.

Guy slung the bow onto his saddle. He drew his sword and lunged forward, hacking.

He made quick work of the first two. Then his mount stumbled, squealing, and he was scrambling for his footing as he slid down, barely getting his blade up in time to meet the next attack. This opponent, a skilled swordsman, settled into a steady, determined attack. Guy parried stroke after stroke, but was gradually pushed back until he was up against his still-twitching horse. Arm tiring, he realised the quiver on his saddle was within reach. Meeting the next heavy swing, he yanked the quiver free with his spare hand. Wielding it, the blow threw his foe off balance. A moment was enough; he made the kill.

Breathing heavily, Guy braced a foot against the body and pulled his sword clear. Straightening, he saw a large group of riders pounding in from the opposite direction. They swept in, hacking, thrusting….where was Felix’ company? Guy put his blade to work. They were outnumbered now. If something had happened to Felix’ runner, if they’d failed to spot this second force entering the wood, then their situation was grim indeed.

In the blur of fighting, he found himself not far from Hubert. He was on foot now, mace replaced by a sword. Raff was nearby. Thrown back into their fighting days, the two swung and hacked with a coherence of movement that was frightening. But there was a weakness there: Guy saw it. When Raff took a hit, his arm sliced open, Hubert’s focus wavered. Not enough to distract him from the kill – a quick, almost delicate I’m-done-with-you movement – but the man fell awkwardly, the angle and his weight twisting Hubert’s sword out of reach.

Glaring eyes met Guy’s. He had a man coming at him from his left, and Raff to his right, vulnerable to a killing blow, but Hubert didn’t know defeat _. That man_ _would defy till his last breath, and then berate the Almighty for taking him._

He was close, but not close enough; Hubert needed a weapon.

“Here,” he shouted, and in a single fluid movement tossed his sword toward the archbishop, its point upraised.

Hubert caught the hilt as the lazy arc of the sword began its descent, lunging in that same moment for Raff’s assailant. Guy aimed his dagger at the throat of the man bearing down on Hubert. Job done, he swung round, ready to take on the next. His hands grasped air. Without his leathers, he didn’t even have the usual assortment of hidden blades. Unarmed, he scrambled back.

And someone came for him. The man’s eyes, visible through his helm, crinkled with amusement – two strides and a single thrust, it was all too easy.

Once Guy probably would have laughed too, if it had been him.


	20. Chapter 20

He never made the second stride.

An arrow thumped through his neck, protruding grotesquely out the front. As the man toppled, Guy shuddered. If it had missed, he would have been directly in the arrow’s path. But looking up, he saw the only other bowman he knew who would never miss.

“Get yourself a weapon, will you?” shouted Archer.

He made his way over to Guy.

“Alright, brother?”

Guy nodded.

“Thanks.” He stooped down, grabbing the fallen man’s sword.

Stepping to where Hubert and Raff fought, the four of them formed a ring and battered their assailants back. Guy fought doggedly, his energy flagging. He couldn’t take the time to glance up, to see what was happening elsewhere, but he knew Felix’ troops hadn’t come and that, outnumbered as they were, defeat was probably inevitable.

“I need to - get…..” parry, “to my….” slash, “horse….”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

His opponent down, Archer began edging towards the slain animal. Guy followed, not sure what Archer was about until he reached down and plucked a hunting horn from the pommel of his saddle. Raising it to his lips, while Guy shielded him from attack, Archer blew a signal loud and clear enough to carry to where their reinforcements waited.

The ambushers knew what this meant, they set to with greater ferocity. Blood ran down Guy’s arm. He couldn’t recall taking the wound and fought on, both sides slipping on the wet surface. He’d lost his footing again, cursing, when his opponent showed a flicker of distraction. Guy heard it too: approaching riders.

“Fall back!” someone yelled, and their attackers abruptly withdrew, scrambling for the cover of the trees.

Felix’ troops poured through the gaps between the wagons, an unstoppable force, scything men down. Hubert’s men hunted the fleeing troops, cutting down stragglers where the brush slowed them, herding those who hadn’t fled into a cluster.

“What took you so long?” demanded Hubert, when Felix dismounted beside him.

“They killed both my runner, and my reserve. So we had no way of knowing.” He gazed around at the carnage, toeing a body with his boot. “ _Mon Dieu_. These men wished to remain anonymous, _certainement_ ….”

“Indeed. No colours,” observed Hubert. “Not even their leader. No matter, we’ll get it out of them. Right – let’s get this cleared and move on.”

They moved amongst the fallen, separating out weapons, piling the bodies to one side. Hubert had sent back a rider and carts would come from Canterbury, taking the corpses for burning. The rain was filtered to a drizzle beneath the forest canopy. Guy and Archer slogged side by side, slinging men – most dead of horrific wounds – onto the pile. More than one, not quite dead but near enough, took a blade between the ribs without knowing whence death came. Life hissed out, along with the last of the shock and the pain.

“Don’t know why we can’t just leave 'em all,” muttered Archer.

“Not Hubert’s way,” grunted Guy, lifting.

Others had loaded the portion of genuine silver onto two wagons; the remaining carts were left for the servants on their way. It was past noon when they set out again. With only two laden vehicles, their pace was quicker; they reached Dover late next morning.

Hubert sent Felix and his men back to Canterbury once it was clear there’d be no further incident; Guy saw this enviously, but he knew his duty. If it wasn’t for the archbishop, he wouldn’t have Meg waiting for him, or have the home they shared. By now Hubert had secured him with bands tight as any Vaisey had ever woven. But whereas he’d tried to kill the one, for the other, he had disarmed himself in combat. Which was the kind of reckless, stupid thing Robin would do, he told himself, expecting one of the gang to wade in to his rescue. Clearly he’d spent too much time among the outlaws.

Still, Archer had been there for him.

Sometimes, when he washed down and noticed the dark, puckered acid-scars on his arm, he thought of those days - a lone wolf, an assassin. A life so far removed from where he stood now, wearing this uniform with the archbishop’s crest, that sometimes he almost believed what Hubert once said about deserving grace. But did _he_? Would he ever? A blade forced in – dear God, he had shoved it home – scarlet blooming across a white tunic…some stains on the soul were too deep to be removed. He woke again that night, sweating and shaking, his nightmares an amalgam of Marian and Vaisey and Meg, yes her too, blood all over her dress, and the terror thumping in his heart that he’d been the one who’d put it there.

He wanted to go home, he needed to see Meg. She was his haven, his balm. But they were stuck here, in Dover, waiting for the queen and her entourage to arrive.

They came two days later. The ships had been awaiting the queen also, and when the royal household descended – turning the ordered running of the port into a maelstrom – it took a full day and a half to get it all aboard. Not only the ransom came, its guard contingent bristling with arms, but the queen had brought with her all the varied attendants with which royalty must travel. Add to this the retinue commanded by Richard who, as part of his negotiated release was to be crowned King of Provence, and a quota of nobles demanded as hostages by the emperor, and the small, thriving merchant port of just a day ago swelled to thrice its size in a matter of hours.

The clatter of horse hooves up and down the main street, and the constant rush of porters and couriers, made the building work taking place on the castle’s outer wall - formerly a mild irritation - seem peaceful by comparison.

Hubert was lodged in the keep, and had no shortage of tasks for Guy and Archer. No one gained entry without business being there, but Hubert made sure Guy was never directly in Eleanor’s presence. Only once, as he entered a corridor, did he come close. A royal guard barred his way and he felt his mouth go dry and his palms sweat as she swept regally past, a brush of silk and whisper of scent behind a barrier of steel. He was glad, then, of the nondescript uniform. He missed his leathers – without them he often felt oddly diminished, almost vulnerable - but at that moment, with the glitter of her gaze sweeping across and past him, he was acutely grateful for the safety offered by anonymity.

With the turn of the tide on the second day, Guy stood leaning on the battlements with Archer, watching the last ship lift anchor and away. The sharp breeze tossed his hair and cut through his tunic. Across the estuary, gulls circled the lighthouse, gliding on the wind ripping at the clouds and hastening the fleet out to the channel.

“Fancy an ale?” asked Archer.

“I’d rather get out of here,” muttered Guy.

“Won’t happen, not today. Come on, we’re off duty. Let’s go.”

His prediction was correct. The archbishop left Dover the next morning and, riding steadily, they were in Canterbury by nightfall. By the time they reached the castle Guy was saddle-sore, and the surface wounds he’d taken ached, but as soon as Hubert dismissed them he strode away, intent on reaching Meg.

“What, britches uncomfortable brother?” Archer tossed after him.

Guy shot him a repressive glare and then charged up the steps with long strides, spurs clattering on the stone. He needed Meg back in his arms more than he cared to admit.

But when he reached her chambers, they were empty. The fire had burned low, and the few candles left alight sputtered. Impatient, but seeing no need for alarm – she would dine in the Great Hall, he presumed, and perhaps had made a friend who detained her – he decided to wash down and change while he waited. This done, he fed the fire, and waited a bit longer. Or thought he did. Grabbing up his jacket, he left the room to look for her.

He reached the end of the corridor and, walking along the next, glimpsed through a latticed panel a couple holding hands. Before his thoughts could catch up, his feet had stopped. He stood, staring.

A blackness swallowed him: the woman was Meg. _So beautiful_. Her hair was piled high, a few tendrils framing her face; she wore a dress he’d had made for her, gold and blue. He remembered the night she’d tried it on, laughing as he promptly got her out of it. Now she was looking up at the courtier, a young man with a fashionable doublet and swept back blond hair. Laughing at something _he_ said. He held her fingertips in his hands. Guy had a sudden vision of these hands running over Meg’s body, picturing the two locked in a debauched embrace. The pain of that imagining staggered him. He reached blindly for the wall.

While he struggled to find a sane thought, the man lifted Meg’s hands and pressed his lips to the back of each in turn. She smiled at him; the courtier gave a slight bow, and then left her.

And as he walked off, Guy saw Meg turn away and wipe the backs of her hands on her skirt, a small moue of distaste on her lips.

He bowed his head with relief. Meg found him there, hair about his face, still braced against the wall.

“You’re here!” she cried, and in the burst of her affection for him, as she ran her hands up and down his arms, and then cradled his face in her palms, delight in her eyes….what he felt for her in that moment was beyond any words he could utter.

“Come with me,” he rasped, gripping her hand.

They reached the room and Guy kicked the door closed behind them. He threw his jacket off.

“Be with me,” he murmured. “Now.”

And with the “yes” that breathed from her, she was up against the wall then and their fingers were tangling in their haste, his britches unlaced, her skirt bunched around her waist, his fingers probing, welcome. Then he was lifting her up, her legs wrapped around his waist, pushing into her depths. They dislodged a tapestry. He bucked into her, until she began slipping.

“Hold on,” he whispered and, still locked together, he turned them onto the bed.

Some part of him, as she lay spread beneath him, eyes glazed with passion, told him to slow down; but a shift of his weight, or a hesitation in his eyes, and Meg read his intent. She clasped him tighter, tilting up to take more of him in. That was all it took.

Afterwards, their clothes gone and her hair disarrayed, he rested his face against her chest. Felt the rise and fall of her settling breaths. Recalling how urgently he’d taken her, he was appalled.

“Meg…” he began hoarsely.

She stroked his hair.

“No need,” she said simply.

He sighed, a deep exhale that seemed to disperse all the tensions and uncertainties of their week apart, and to almost shed the memory of his earlier fears.

Almost.

“Who was the admirer?” he couldn’t help asking, later, when they were almost asleep.

“You saw us? Oh – did you think……? You stupid man.” She was silent a while. Then she said: “His lips were cold, like slugs. Mind you, he is rather….pretty.”

Guy raised his head, saw the mischief in her eyes.

“You deserved that,” she teased, but then became serious. “So you distrust me? Why would you doubt my love for you?”

“I don’t, not really. But I saw him touch you…and it was like a thousand cuts.” Guy rolled onto his back, staring at the stone-work overhead; he tucked Meg up against his side. “I know what I am, Meg, and what I’ve been. I don’t deserve you. I keep wondering when and how I’ll destroy _this_.”

Meg raised herself onto an elbow, gazing down at him, and now her eyes blazed with tenderness and love.

“You don’t, you know…have any idea what you are now. When will you believe me? When will you see that people like Hubert – and Robin – don’t place their trust in you without cause?”

“They’re good men; they believe in second chances.”

“Which are either squandered, or used. And if you hadn’t used yours, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Guy was silent, wanting to believe her. Wondering how deep the well of his deeds must be, to make up for everything he’d done.

But Meg rose up over him then, her curves, her pale skin, her unbound hair – her _loveliness_ \- filling his vision. Their lips met, a deep, searching kiss which, when she broke, was only to shuffle back a little. Lowering herself, she allowed her sweet lips to follow her caresses, across his chest, down his stomach, further. She explored, unhurriedly, wringing groans of pleasure from him. She took him in and soon he was lost, head flung back, eyes closed, helpless. _This won’t take long._ Lifting to watch her was a mistake, of sorts. He had to do something _this instant_ ; with her name on his lips, he drew her away.

He wouldn’t spend himself so soon, not this time. Not until he could bring her with him, caressing each sensitive part of her until she writhed and begged him to enter her. When he did – their hands twined beside her head – it was with such tenderness he saw tears well in her eyes. Shifting a little, he tilted one of her legs to the side, teasing her further open. His hand moved between them. Soon she arched and cried out, giving him all he needed to thrust home, her body moving with each stroke. He shuddered through a release so intense that afterwards they clung together, prolonging its echoes. _Enough, and never enough._

Before he slid from her, she took his face in her hands.

“I will never betray you,” she told him fiercely. “Don’t doubt me, ever.”

And some time later, wound together and nearing sleep, he heard her murmur drowsily: “Besides, what use would I have for ‘pretty’ after _that_?”

He chuckled into her hair, and could have sworn he fell asleep still smiling.

                                          -----------------------------------------------------------------

The winter slipped by.

They wasted no time moving back to the house, with Archer. The Christmas season came and went. True to her word, Meg stayed mostly indoors, avoiding the influx of pilgrims and its attendant mischief-makers. She’d watch them from the front window, where it overlooked the street, but found better entertainment was to be had watching the carollers – they gathered in their groups, and danced in a merry circle while they sang.

Trips to market were unavoidable, but she was careful and more watchful now, and managed to avoid any unpleasant incidents.

Their own celebrations were linked to those in the castle – they were invited to the feasts, elaborate fare of goose, venison and pies like her mother had once made, of shredded meat mixed with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. And there were the mummers plays, which Meg loved, transported by the costume and the music and often glowing with so much enthusiasm when they returned home that Guy would laugh and tease her for it, saying he should learn to play an instrument lest he lose her one day to some sweet-talking rogue of a minstrel.

The rhythm of their lives was simple, but Meg liked it that way. Their house was plainly furnished, but Guy often brought her things to brighten up the rooms, a tapestry, or a cushion that he thought would look well. He gave her other, more personal things, too: a phial of scent, or a hair piece he’d picked up from some travelling merchant. Her favourite woollen cloak.

At first, he’d been oddly hesitant when giving her things, almost as if he expected her to turn them away. She didn’t understand it. She asked him about it, but he evaded her questions. Which meant it was something to do with Marian, of course. Sometimes, she wondered what had been wrong with the woman, to reject him so soundly. But then she had to remind herself there was a whole, dark history there to which she’d chosen to remain blind. Ultimately, the poor woman had paid a terrible price for whatever existed between them. She doubted Guy would ever carve the memory out of his own heart. It haunted his sleep. Not often, but there were nights when he thrashed and cried out, and waking him she would hold him to her and feel the wetness on his face.

For her part, she would always accept his gifts.

They were sitting by the fire one evening in January, Guy toying with her hair, when Archer stumped in, shaking snow from his boots.

“Nights like this,” he grumbled, “I’m glad we’re not living in the forest anymore. What’s cook left us to eat?”

He took himself off to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. Meg was settled on the floor between Guy’s legs, leaving the other chair free. Archer took it, and began cramming in mouthfuls.

“Do you think we’ll ever go back, to Nottingham?” he asked, after a mouthful of wine. “Would you want to?”

“Of course,” said Meg. “I love it here, but to not see everyone again…that would be hard.”

Guy was silent, watching the flames.

“And not just friends,” he said after a while. “We have family, too. Your father, and Isabella.”

Archer snorted.

“You’re joking? We might share blood with that treacherous bitch, but I wouldn’t call her family.”

Meg glanced up, surprised; Guy hadn’t mentioned Isabella in all the time since their wedding.

“I’ve been thinking, lately, that perhaps we should give her another chance,” he went on. “If she’s been deposed as Sheriff, she might be more inclined to listen to reason.”

“And what could you possibly say to convince her she’d want anything to do with us?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps that I truly had no idea what Thornton was like...” Guy sighed, rubbing his hands together. “Once, all she wanted from me was an apology, but I was too stubborn and proud to give her one. Now it seems like such a small thing to ask.”

Meg’s face flushed, guilt washing through her. _Should I tell him_? At the time, it had felt like the right – no, the only – thing to do, urging Robin to send Isabella back to the castle. She’d been so fearful for Guy and, to be honest, for herself. The thought of accepting Isabella into the camp had seemed like tossing a viper into a child’s crib. But now, if Guy was interested in a reconciliation…the urge to confess warred with her inclination to wait and see. She supposed that if they ever went back to Nottingham, she could ask Robin for help; try and find some way to edge brother and sister towards a reunion, without admitting she’d once been instrumental in keeping Isabella away.

Besides, it was done; there was nothing that could be done to fix it right there and then.

“…I hardly see the point,” Archer was saying. “She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with us. And I must say, I’m surprised to find you so forgiving. She’d have married Meg off to that bastard without a second thought.”

“She wasn’t always that way. We grew up together, remember. If things had been different…..”

“Maybe, but they weren’t. So tell me,” he said, tired of the subject and scraping up the last of his stew, “what did Hubert say was happening with the Chancellor’s visit next week?”

So the conversation moved on, and Meg kept silent; but the guilt churned round in her head, and she wondered how long she could keep such a secret.

                                          -------------------------------------------------------------------

The serving maid leaned in to refill his goblet, but Guy signalled her to stop halfway. Hubert would have work for him soon. He was seated near the archbishop; several places along, on Hubert’s immediate right, sat Adam of St Edmund. The messenger had ridden in late that afternoon, curls plastered to his forehead and dark pouches under his eyes. Guy had been in the courtyard when Raff greeted him and demanded to know his business, in his own terse way. He’d come from France; from Prince John.

The crossing and the subsequent ride had taken its toll, but after a couple of hours’ rest the man looked somewhat refreshed. Guy noted the steadiness with which St Edmund’s goblet was filled, under Raff’s discreet supervision, and that it was accompanied by an increasing unsteadiness of the messenger’s hand. St Edmund seemed aware of his limits though. When the final course was laid out, he picked at the spiced sugar lumps and the cheese, declined the fragrant wine offered, and declared himself ready to retire. Guy smirked behind his goblet, seeing the finesse with which Hubert admitted to a tiring day himself, stating he wouldn’t say no to a quiet game of chess. As he steered the man away, Guy caught the glance that was his instruction.

After a short interval, he rose and left the dining hall. He stationed himself in an alcove near the archbishop’s antechamber. An hour or so later he saw the door open, a flicker of firelight beyond, and a weary Adam of St Edmund being escorted to his chambers. Hubert beckoned Guy in.

“Did you get all you wanted?” he asked wryly.

“The King is released,” Hubert said without preamble, gesturing for Guy to sit.

Giving him no time to digest this, Hubert continued.

“He told me all of it, foolish fellow. Richard was freed on the fourth and is well on his way from Germany by now. The prince is rallying supporters, demanding that all the castles he holds – including Nottingham - are to be defended against Richard. St Edmund is delivering these instructions.”

“And he has them on him now?”

Hubert nodded.

“So why don’t we just take them? Problem solved.”

“Ideally yes, exactly what we would do. But it’s not that simple.” Hubert toyed with the chess pieces on the board between them. “He leaves in the morning for London, and we must allow him to go. I need to ingratiate myself with London’s mayor, and this gives me the perfect opportunity. I’ll have a letter for you within the hour. I want you to take it to him, tonight. You must stay ahead of St Edmund. We’ll warn the mayor so that he can apprehend him, preferably en route.”

“Very well.”

“And as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, I’ll be living in all sorts of purgatory if anything goes wrong. The mayor can take the credit for his capture, but I need those letters.”

Sombrely then, with a flick of his finger, Hubert knocked the king piece over. It fell off the board with a clunk, and rolled on the floor.

“So don’t,” he said grimly, “come back without them.”

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Hubert wasn’t a man to be caught napping. For the first two weeks of March, he had the ports of both Sandwich and Dover watched. If Richard landed at either, it was fairly certain the royal entourage would travel via Canterbury. For such an event, he must be ready. He had a swift rider billeted at each port, with instructions to bring word the moment the sails of the king’s fleet appeared.

He’d hardly slept these past weeks. By some stroke of divine providence, John’s messenger had not only landed in his lap, but been gullible enough to disclose his secrets. The stratagem to gain the letters had worked, thanks to Guy.

 _Sir Guy._ In conversation, he retained the formality; in the privacy of his thoughts, it was hard to think of this staunch knight with anything but the deepest affection. He owed the man his life. Of course in battle you protect your comrades; he and Raff had done so countless times. But what Hubert hadn’t seen before was a man leave himself defenceless to do so.

With proof of John’s perfidy to hand, he’d set about toppling his plans. The Council had met, dispossessing John of his lands and preparing to lay siege to his castles. All was almost ready. Once he’d greeted the king – any day now, surely – he would lead the troops to Marlborough Castle himself.

The report came one morning not long after dawn: Raff’s knock on his door, the ruddy-faced messenger in the Great Hall brimming with importance.

“Yes Your Grace, the ships have been sighted; they will have made land. His Majesty, and Queen Eleanor, will be here by nightfall.”

Hubert dismissed him. He was confident everything would be ready. Raff would oversee the details, a barrage of competence during the day and by evening, groomed to readiness, he would be at his shoulder ready to perform whatever service might be needed. Hubert sighed. His own day wouldn’t be idle. More edicts to issue, final briefings for his deputies, all the various ecclesiastical and administrative tasks that would need to be handled in his absence. He didn’t know how long he’d be away.

But of this Hubert had no doubt: the coming of the Lionheart would bring a storm to the land, and they would all be whipped about as leaves in the tumult.

With this in mind, there was one detail he mustn’t neglect. When his Sherwood men appeared, he gave Guy and Archer the news. Guy clenched and unclenched his fists, but gave no other visible reaction. Hubert reached out a hand, tapping the studs on his thick leather doublet.

“Time to disappear again I think, Sir Guy,” he said. “This time, to Nottingham.”

                                        ----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Let me come with you,” Meg pleaded. “I’m a good rider, let me just find something to wear...”

“No time,” Archer said, glancing up as he checked straps and fastenings.

“That’s just the sort of delay we can’t afford,” added Guy, strapping a water skin onto his saddle.

“It won’t take long, I could...”

“No,” they said, in unison.

“It’ll be a hard ride Meg,” Archer went on. “Speed’s paramount.”

“Sweetheart – you can follow in a day or two, in Savell’s carriage. The carpenter Hubert’s sending north to work on the siege engines isn’t robust enough to ride, he and a couple of servants can accompany you.”

“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” she said bitterly.

“Don’t sulk,” he snapped, turning back to his tasks. “It doesn’t become you.”

At which she felt like hitting him, until they were ready to go and she saw from the look in his eyes that of course he didn’t want to leave her. Why make it harder? A brief, parting kiss, words murmured in haste, and they were gone.

After they swung onto their mounts and rode out, she stood listlessly in the bailey, her fingertips drifting softly across her lips.

But the next evening, joining the nobles summoned to feast the royals, Meg was relieved Guy was safely away. Even in this gathering, he would have stood out. Between exchanging pleasantries with her neighbour, she let her eyes rove around. She’d attended formal banquets before, in Sir Edward’s day, but compared to this they’d been nothing. The Great Hall thrummed with music and conversation. The guests' finery vied for the latest in colour and cut, jewels winking in belt buckles, sword hilts and hairpieces, or draped around slender necks and wrists. Excitement, anticipation, speculation; the flutter of feminine hands, glances cast at the doors.

And when the minstrels in the gallery fell silent and trumpets heralded the king, all chatter ceased. Meg watched the Lionheart and his mother approach the dais and supposed that she should feel awe. But to her, Richard’s presence was a thing of dread, a portent of change that made her sick with fear. She swayed a little, and had to grab the edge of the table.

Directly behind the royals walked the archbishop. Meg was a little taken aback by the sight of Hubert in his full ceremonial garb. As he walked past – the richly adorned outer robe bearing the saints and the Saviour, all stitched in fine gold thread – Meg could see nothing of the former Crusader Guy so admired. He took his place to Richard’s left beneath the canopy; Raff stepped forward, and relieved him of his crozier.

Sitting through one course after another, her stomach heavy with the richness of the food, the noise and the heat began to make her lightheaded. Fighting this, she stepped out into the corridor, relishing the cooler air. Someone joined her.

“My lady, are you well?” Raff inquired.

“Yes, thank you,” Meg answered. “Did His Grace send you?”

It seemed improper to refer to him as Hubert, as he sat in his place of honour beneath the Plantagenet banners.

“He did. But if there’s no problem, I’ll return.”

Raff strode back into the hall, and Meg followed shortly after. She glanced at the dais, grateful to the archbishop; he caught her eye and, despite his elevated status, he gave her a small wink. Stifling a shocked giggle, Meg turned back to her companion.

The novelty of the evening wore off well before it ended. Jesters and minstrels came and went. Meg grew drowsy, and to keep herself awake began trying to identify the various noble houses from the colours of the hanging pennants. Black and yellow was absent, despite Hubert’s regard for Guy. It saddened her; he deserved more. And he would keep trying to prove it, she knew, even at the risk of his life. She gazed at the king, saw his bluff and easy manner, and knew enough of the world to be not in the least reassured by it.

She couldn’t get to Nottingham soon enough.

                                             ----------------------------------------------------------------

“So you’ve seen him?” Much asked again. “You’ve really, truly seen him?”

“Yes, Much.”

“And it was definitely him?”

“Yes,” Meg laughed.

“Leave it, will you?” growled Guy. “She’s already said…”

“Yes, well, we’ve been told by you before…”

A chorus of “Much!” “Shut up Much!”

Muttering, he slopped food into the bowls and handed them round.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Guy sighed; they were about to find out. “It means we’ll all be rewarded. I might _really_ get to be the Earl of Bonchurch…at last.”

“You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself Much,” said Robin. “We’ve got a castle to take first. Now, I’ve been thinking. The sheriff’s tunnel gives us an advantage, we’ll meet with Chester and Ferrers tomorrow…”

“…I say we go alone,” Little John interrupted.

“I agree,” said Archer.

“They’ve got an army sitting there, shouldn’t we use it?” Guy was inclined to agree with Robin.

“Not necessarily,” Tuck put in. “We might not need to. If we can convince Prince John’s constables that the king is on his way here with more troops, surely they’ll see sense and come out?”

Robin steepled his fingers, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“It’s madness,” said Guy. “How do we get out if they don’t listen to us?”

“Same way we go in. Alright, let’s try it. Get some sleep, we go in the morning lads.”

“What about me?” Meg said, as they all started to rise. “I’m coming, aren’t I?”

“No.” Guy didn’t hesitate.

“Why not?” she retorted. “Kate will be going, why can’t I?”

“She can fight. Have you ever used a sword?”

“No, but I’m about to.”

A few sniggers.

“There might be something you can do – Guy wait, listen,” said Robin. “If we get into trouble, it’d be useful to have someone on the outside. She could get a message to one of the earls and bring help.”

Guy considered.

“Very well. As long as she’s not in danger.”

“Right everyone, sleep.”

So at last they were alone, or as alone as it was possible to be in a camp full of ears.

“Are you wearing those tomorrow?” Meg asked, as he took off his leathers. “The king will be here any day now.”

“Yes, and that’s why. If I’m fighting on the right side, it’s time to be seen.”

‘You’re just as likely to be killed by one of ours. They don’t all know your recent history.”

“A risk I’ll have to take.”

He shed the last of his clothes and climbed in beside her. It was as snug as ever on the cramped bunk.

“At least Kate can’t object now,” she murmured.

“No. So you won’t be needing this,” Guy whispered, drawing her shift off over her head.

                                       -----------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s blocked,” observed Much, giving the door another shove.

“Trust you to state the bleedin’ obvious.”

“That’s not possible,” said Tuck, pushing past Allan to test it for himself. “It wasn’t when we came to rescue Meg from Isabella.”

“Are you sure?” asked Robin. “Did you try the door? Remember you couldn’t get in.”

“Only because there was too much activity in the hall. We opened the door a crack to have a look.”

“Then you must have been seen,” accused Guy.

Robin shrugged.

“Perhaps not. Isabella’s been in the castle all along. It’s just as likely she got suspicious when she caught you and Archer sneaking in for the ransom and found it then. Knowing her, she’d keep it guarded, a trap, in the hope we’d use it again sometime.”

“But if she told Prince John’s men about it, they’d have closed it off,” said Guy. “Too big a risk now they’re under siege.”

“Well, standing round here ain’t gonna change it,” said Allan.

They returned along the tunnel, had almost reached the end when Meg came running to meet them.

“He’s here,” she gasped. “The King, his army…they’re here.”

Robin looked past her, something enigmatic crossing his face; then he looked back at the gang, and his face split in a grin.

“About time. Let’s go meet him then,” he said.

At the steps leading out he paused, letting the others pass.

“You can’t be seen, not yet,” he said to Guy. “Go and join Chester’s men, we’ll send for you if we can.”

“No,” Guy said firmly. “Until the archbishop gets here, I ride with you.”

“No! What are you thinking?” cried Meg. “That’s madness.”

“It’s alright,” Robin said, his gaze on Guy. “I’ll speak for him. The king will have too much else on his mind today to bother with old scores.”

“Today,” she said, struggling for control.

“Robin, I’ll be along in a minute.”

The outlaw nodded, and moved away. Guy caught Meg’s hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across the back of them.

“Meg, I won’t hide. Not now.”

“You didn’t tell me that’s what you planned to do. You could have warned me, last night.”

“Why? We’d have just spent the night arguing. Meg – it’s time. Just accept it, please.” He paused, weighing up whether or not to say something more. “I can’t persuade you to go back to the camp and wait, now the fighting’s about to begin?”

“Don’t push it,” she snapped, ripping her hands away. “Besides, we don’t know that. It could be days, weeks – we don’t know how long they’ll stay holed up in there.”

“The king won’t stand for it. Things will start happening now he’s here.”

“Well, if they do, I’ll go back as far as the edge of the forest. At least from there I’ll have some idea what’s happening.”

Guy tried to find some objection to this, but it sounded reasonable. He drew her into his arms, resting his cheek against her hair.

“Come on you two, time for that later,” said Archer, shouldering past them. “Things to do now. Little things, like a town to besiege, and a king to welcome…”

“Indeed,” murmured Guy.

He stepped out of the embrace. With a parting squeeze of Meg’s hand, he released her and they followed Archer up the steps.

                                           ---------------------------------------------------------------

They were all there to greet the Lionheart, Robin and his men, Ranulph the Earl of Chester, and William, Earl of Ferrers.

He approached Nottingham at the head of his army, the flags borne by his standard-bearers waving in a steady breeze. If she’d felt dread seeing him in the banquet hall at Canterbury, it was nothing to what Meg felt now, with Guy waiting among those assembled. The prickling of awe that had been missing at Canterbury was present now; though perhaps that was just fear as well.

But when she saw the joy on the faces of those waiting, she had to surrender her fear for a while. As Richard reined in, he dismounted and bade them rise. Tears were on Much’s face and she was almost crying herself then, as the Lionheart embraced Robin. He did the same for both his loyal earls.

“Robin, it’s good to see you,” he said, stepping back. “I’ve wondered often, since you left us…well, you know how it was then. We’ll sup tonight, I must hear. Meanwhile, tell me what’s going on here. Surely this rabble knew….”

The king paused, his gaze landing on Guy. He snapped an order and before Meg knew what was happening spears bristled around Guy, and someone bound his wrists. He didn’t struggle. _Accept_ _it_. Well he might, but she never would.

“Will someone tell me what he’s doing here?” Richard demanded.

“He’s with us, sire.” Robin stepped forward.

The Lionheart gave him a long look.

“I fear I’ll never understand you, Robin. Why would you protect this black-hearted bastard?”

“Long story, no time. But he’s been one of us since before you were captured. And if you imprison him, you’ll have one very upset archbishop when he gets here.”

“Which one? Wait…..” The King turned her way, and Meg fought the urge to lower her eyes. “I saw her – yes, at Canterbury. So, Hubert. What’s he got to do with it?”

But before Robin could reply, Richard turned and strode back to his horse.

“No, you’re right, we don’t have time. After this is done we’ll sort it out. You might be forgiving Robin, but I would have him answer for his crimes. Take him away.”

“Wait.” Startled, Meg turned to look at Guy. “Let me fight sire. Please.”

The Lionheart touched a heel to his destrier and moved forward. The ring of spears parted to let him approach.

“And why,” he said quietly, his tone rich with menace, “would I do that?”

“So I can prove myself.”

“That might matter to you; it doesn’t to me, at all.”

Richard scrutinised him implacably. Meg trembled, tears escaping down her face. She couldn’t stop them. _He’s tried so hard to do what’s right, to atone._ She must have made some small sound because the Lionheart glanced up, straight at her. He clucked his horse round, and drew alongside her. Reaching out a hand, he brushed a fingertip across her cheek.

“You weep for him?” he asked curiously. “Who are you?”

“His lady, sire.”

Richard shook his head; he looked from Robin to Guy.

“So _he_ comes out of all this with a wife?” Meg flinched. Cruel words, the rest was implicit. “Enough. He can fight as long as you, Robin, will stand surety that he sticks around at the end. Then, perhaps, we will have justice.”

“He'll be here,” said Robin.

The king started to move away but then lazily, as if an afterthought, the scrape of a drawn sword as he swung back. Lunging forward, he pressed the blade firmly up against her abdomen; Meg could feel the hard tip of it depress the fabric of her gown. She froze, terrified of what an involuntary move might do.

“Who knows, perhaps this would be justice.”

A guttural cry, Guy’s horse moving; she was afraid, again, for him.

“Stay there,” Richard said silkily, without turning.

As deliberately as he’d drawn it, the king withdrew the blade.

“You don’t need to worry,” he went on, eyes glinting malice. “ _I_ don’t murder unarmed women. Now come, all of you. Yes, him too. We’ve a town to re-take.”

Meg swayed in the saddle; she thought she might fall. Little John reached her before Guy could push through the guards, helping her down.

“It’s alright lass, don’t fret,” he rumbled, folding her into a hug. “He’s safe, for now.”

She took deep breaths, a little comforted. When she looked up, Guy was being hustled along with the guards – not exactly a prisoner, but not free to come to her either.

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, and there was murder in his eyes. She clung to John’s jacket, afraid.

                                                -----------------------------------------------------------

“Let them know we’re coming,” roared the Lionheart.

As the army advanced on Nottingham, the din of their approach – horns and trumpets, and weapons clashing on shields – no doubt travelled for miles across Sherwood.

Whatever effect this might have had on the besieged, the gates remained firmly closed.

“We take the outer bailey, now.” Robin relayed the king’s instructions. “Archer, you’re with me. We’re to aim for the crossbowmen up there. The rest of you, take shields from the pile for cover, advance with Richard’s men. We’ll join you when we’re out of arrows.”

Guy was in the middle of this madness now, arrows thudding into the heavy shields as they approached the outer gate. They swarmed up the ladders, relying on the cover their own archers provided. Guy swung up onto the battlement, dodging a swing that could have taken his head. He hacked the guard down, swung to face the next. The battle was fierce but short, Richard’s men swarming up the walls behind him, by sheer force of numbers pushing, pushing, until resistance collapsed. They surged into the bailey, on towards the next target.

Arrows found foreheads, chests, limbs. Guy sweated in the press of bodies beneath the shield barrier. The next barbican wouldn’t fall so easily, troops charged out from the gate and soon they were engaged in a battering, hacking defence. The afternoon grew bloody. As the fighting pressed and swayed, occasionally he glimpsed the others: Tuck’s mace splitting heads, Allan swift on his feet and lethal, John unstoppable.

Robin and Much – well, he’d seen the like before, that battle-readiness honed in the Holy Land slipping back over them. They fought near Richard. They were King’s men. In the midst of it all, the Lionheart’s great sword swung and scythed, and from time to time he let forth a great, booming war cry which rallied the pockets of struggling men, giving them heart and causing them to redouble their efforts.

His own seemed to grow more laboured. His arm was tired, and twice already luck rather than skill had saved his skin. The next time, it was Archer, who appeared at his side. This revived Guy. They fought on, each watching the other’s back. But it was a dogged defence the besieged waged, no sign of combat ceasing. Guy had a smattering of small wounds, nothing he couldn’t ignore, but thirst and fatigue were beginning to niggle. All of this made the outcome of each encounter less sure. As he slogged on, one opponent after another, he had no illusions: he wasn’t fighting for anything but survival now. If Archer’s grim face was anything to go by, it was the same for him.

Then someone else appeared to aid them, with a fresh blade, a lighter step. Guy didn’t register at first, the identity of the new troops. When he did take note, peering in the fading light, he recognised not only the crest but the face; one of the archbishop’s men. Hubert had arrived, at last.

It signalled the end of the day’s battle, victory as the besieged fled back into the castle. The king’s forces withdrew, setting fire to the wooden barbican on the way out so it could no longer be defended or attacked by either side.

Guy and Archer found a patch of grass and collapsed. Lurid shadows from the fire danced across the turf; Guy closed his eyes, bruised and aching, thinking he’d never been as tired as he was at that moment. He heard Robin and Much arrive; then the others, one by one. Someone nudged him, handing him a water-skin. He sat up and drank heavily before passing it on. No one spoke, not even Much.

Robin was first to recover. He sat up, watching the flames.

“I have to go,” he said, to no one in particular. “Richard will want to plan for tomorrow. He’ll be in a foul mood. After Tickhill and Marlborough fell over themselves to surrender, he expected Nottingham to do the same. He won’t want another day like this tomorrow.”

“We can stay here, then,” said Allan, an arm draped across his forehead. “Nothing to do with us.”

“No. But I think we should make some plans of our own,” said Archer.

Allan groaned; they all did, slowly sitting up.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, with the middle and upper baileys still to breach, we have something that would give the king an advantage.”

“Greek fire,” said Guy thoughtfully.

“He won’t want to use it on his own castle, surely?” Tuck observed.

“No, and nor do I,” said Robin. “It’s too dangerous. I say we leave it where it is.”

Archer shrugged.

“His grandfather used it, and it’s been used against him. He’ll get the secret of it one day.”

“Not from us he won’t.” Robin clambered to his feet. “Right, Much and I will stay here, the rest of you back to camp. Rest well lads.”

Guy stood also, regretting it all the way.

“We have to find Hubert.” He reached down a hand to help Archer up. “Let’s go.”

“So soon?” Archer grumbled.

They found Hubert’s lodging, a house next to the one Richard had occupied by the outer wall. He was just pulling his hauberk off over his head, the chain mail rippling in the candlelight.

“A tough day,” Hubert observed, sitting down to eat. “Join me, won’t you?”

“I hear you’ve managed to get yourself in trouble already,” he went on as they ate.

“He threatened Meg. Held a sword to her stomach.” Despite all that had happened since, Guy’s anger surged as strong as it had that morning.

“He’s testing you, of course.” Hubert chewed thoughtfully. “He wants you to remember he’s the king. That he can do whatever he wants.”

“I’m hardly likely to forget it.”

“Just so. Well, stay out of his way until all this is over. He’s not in the best of tempers at the moment.”

“So I hear,” Guy said wryly. “Don’t worry, I’ve no wish to see him again.”

“Good. Now, eat well, sleep well. With a bit of luck and good planning, we’ve a castle to take tomorrow.”

                                         ------------------------------------------------------------------

The fire-glow illuminated the high walls of the middle bailey, pushing back shadows on either side; the rest of Nottingham had long since fallen into darkness. Still Meg waited, on the slight rise where she’d withdrawn, as promised, to watch the battle for the keep. Others who had fled the town were strung along the tree-line, unseen now in the dark. But she could hear them – children whining, mothers talking quietly – and it was a comfort to Meg to know she wasn’t alone.

It was too far away to see much, but during the day she’d heard the horns, and the mighty clash of weapons, and occasionally the shrieks of the dying. Had seen the fight drag on through the afternoon. If it weren’t for nightfall, and the arrival of the archbishop’s men, she suspected it would continue even now.

Meg shivered, pulling her cloak tighter, leaning against a tree. Surely they’d come for her, now the fighting was done? Which made her think – if there was no fighting, then the need for her to cower here was past. She untied her horse and mounted, but before she could urge it forward riders appeared, galloping toward her out of the darkness.

“You’re safe. I’m so glad!”

One by one they reined in, but –

“Where is he? Dear God – Allan? Tuck? Where is he? And Archer….”

“Meg, it’s alright,” Tuck soothed. “The archbishop’s keeping them for the evening. Both are fine.”

She felt a sliver of anger, swiftly quelled, that he hadn’t come back, tonight of all nights. He was alive. Alive. Drained, as they all were, she followed the outlaws back to camp and rested as best she could. Insisted on accompanying them back to Nottingham the following morning.

“If the streets are quiet, I’m coming with you,” she declared and Tuck, although he appeared reluctant, allowed that if all seemed calm she could do so.

All attention, it seemed, had been directed towards preparing the trebuchets. They walked past the tents of Richard’s army, clusters of men not involved in this talking, eating, sharpening weapons. As they approached the town centre, wisps of smoke still drifted from the remains of the barbican. A figure jumped down from a barrel; Much ran towards them, waving his arms.

“Stop – go back. No, not you,” he told Allan. “But Meg, you should go back. You won’t want to see this.”

Meg pushed forward and gripped his arms. She almost shook him.

“What is it? What’s happened to him?”

“What? No, it’s not Gisborne, he’s fine. Well, not _that_ Gisborne anyway.”

“Much, slow down,” said Allan. “What are you talking about, how many bleedin’ Gisbornes are there?”

“Two, of course – well, it was three if you count Meg, but not now. And that’s why she needs to go away. Back. Anywhere but here.”

“Much.” A warning from Tuck.

So he told them, and Meg didn’t know how she got there, but suddenly Tuck and Allan were lifting her up, the muck of the road on her skirts.

She only had one clear thought.

“Take me to Guy,” she said, her voice sounding in her head as if it came from far away. “I need to find him.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Weak morning sun hadn’t shifted the dew on the cobbles when Guy strode back into Nottingham. The smell of fire from the destroyed barbican lingered, a bitter aftertaste of yesterday’s fighting. Carts lumbered past bearing the slain, out to the field where they would be burned. In the opposite direction, trebuchets lumbered into place. The creak of wheels, the snap of chains and the tap of hammers, workers’ shouts and curses, all carried in the still air over a town that held its breath, waiting.

Hubert had sent Guy to relay the king’s intentions to Felix: there would be no further attack until these weapons were ready. With no other immediate tasks, Guy had found Raoul, listening to his account of Marlborough’s defeat.

“Cowered like a whipped cur when they heard your king was back,” the burly second grinned.

Heading for Hubert’s lodgings, Guy glanced into the outer bailey. Men toiled there, clearing bodies and broken weapons from the bloodstained cobbles. Since yesterday a scaffold had been erected in one corner. The king had clearly been about his business early; several corpses dangled in the deep, still shade of the wall. Guy paid scant attention, he’d seen his share of hangings.

He reached the house, almost colliding with Archer on his way out.

“I was coming to look for you,” he said. “To see if you were alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Archer looked at him closely.

“You came past the bailey, didn’t you see….?”

“The executions, yes. What of them?”

“Not out here. Come inside.” Archer opened the door wider and stepped back to let him.

Guy shouldered into the room. It was cold, empty and cheerless, and smelled of stale ale.

“Where’s Hubert?”

“With the king,” Archer said tersely. “But there was nothing he could do, he was too late. Guy, those executions. One of them was Isabella. She was caught escaping the siege, her and some of Prince John’s sergeants. Richard decided to make an example of them.”

“But Isabella’s no longer Sheriff. He could have no quarrel with her.”

An absurd comment, ignoring the facts; he was stalling, trying to delay the moment he would have to face it.

Which was, after all, _now_. Guy shook Archer’s hand from his arm. He stood erect, as if braced for a blow without knowing the direction from which it would come. Was it sorrow, creeping up on the heels of his memories? Was it regret? Was it loss, not of something tangible, but of a future in which she might have had the same chances he’d been given, to start again, to bury the past and make a new life?

It was all of these things, and it hit him like a mallet-swing so that he slumped forward with a groan, his head bowed, fingertips digging into the rough surface of the table. They whitened under the pressure. Archer pulled out a chair and eased him down onto it; Guy didn’t resist. Archer sat also, resting an arm about his shoulders. Guy didn’t shrug him off. _Brother_. Suddenly that seemed like the most important thing in the world, something he could cling to.

The door opened and chill morning light spilled in with Hubert, Raff and Robin. Guy raised his head, saw a deep compassion flicker in the archbishop’s eyes, and looked away, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“He knew, didn’t he?” he rasped. “That she was my sister. He did this to warn me as much as anyone, the bastard.”

Anger. Something else he could hold onto.

“Careful, Sir Guy,” Hubert reprimanded gently. “The King acted within his rights.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He shoved the chair back and stood, glaring at Robin. “And where were you, did you even try to stop him? You’re his pet, he listens to you.”

“I was up with the trebuchets.” Robin frowned, but he let the insult pass. “I’m sorry, if I’d known…”

Another intrusion, this time Allan – and with him, Meg.

“Get her out,” snarled Guy. “She can’t be here.”

Too much crowding in, more than he could process in the space mere moments allowed. And now Meg, mud soiling her dress, too lovely to be tainted; to be here, vulnerable. As out of place in all this ugliness as a flower blooming on a midden….or as a soft, unblemished hand brushing a leper’s brow. He wouldn’t suffer it.

“Take her back to camp,” he said harshly, turning away. “I don’t want her here.”

He stalked out, refusing to look at her.

                                                  -----------------------------------------------------------

_He knows. It’s my doing, and he knows it._

More than his words, it hurt that he would brush past her; out onto the street without a glance, as if she were a stranger, leaving an awkward silence behind him.

“My dear….” began Hubert.

“Typical Giz,” muttered Allan, patting her arm awkwardly as they all rushed to fill it, Robin and Archer too.

Meg retrieved her arm. _He doesn’t do it again; not this time_.

“I’ll find him,” she said, turning to go.

“I’ll help,” offered Allan.

“No – thank you, I’m fine. I know where he will have gone.”

She was right; had to run up to catch up with him, which she did at the edge of the bailey. Once there only her desperation to stop him could have forced her feet to move forward; the presence of death hung in the air like foul breath.

“Come away,” she urged, taking his arm. “They won’t let you take the body yet. Robin will petition the king for it.”

Guy looked down at her, and her heart squeezed at the desolation in his eyes. She thought at first he would shrug her off but, after a moment, he allowed her to lead him away.

They sat on the edge of a well. The town still seemed deserted, folk either cowering in their homes or having fled altogether at the approach of the king’s forces. Meg removed one of his gloves, and held his hand in her lap.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Guy repeated. “He’s already threatened you, now he’s killed Isabella. It isn’t safe.”

“I’m in no danger. He just wanted to make a point.”

She looked up, saw the tautness of his jaw and the dull pain in his eyes, and wished she could take all his hurts away. She couldn’t, of course, but there was one thing she could do.

“If it helps,” she began, over the fearful thudding of her heart, “she did want to do the right thing. A few months ago, she asked Robin if she could join the gang.”

Guy glanced down, surprised.

“Did she? When?”

“While you were on your way back from Canterbury, when Robin rescued me. The new constables had just arrived to replace her.”

“And he turned her down,” he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact.

“Guy – I…..” Meg dropped his hand and stood, folding her arms defensively, clutching at her courage. She could see where this might go, if she didn’t tell him all. “He may have considered it, but I spoke against it. I told him not to.”

He rose and paced away, his back to her.

“If you hadn’t, she might still be here. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

A woman came out of a nearby house, carrying a wooden pail. She almost dropped it when she recognised Guy. Meg wanted to slap her for the anxious glances she cast his way as she filled it. A wonder she didn’t spill it all, as the pail bumped against her thigh in her haste to get back inside.

“They’re still afraid of me,” Guy said bitterly, watching.

“Of course,” Meg agreed. “They’ve nothing but rumour, if that, to tell them you’ve changed.”

“Some things can’t be undone,” he said quietly. “Yet you worry about this? Isabella gave you enough reasons to mistrust her. I can’t blame you for what you did.”

Meg hoped the woman was watching from her window, as Guy took her in his arms; watching as he stroked her hair, whispering in her ear:

“If you hadn’t, who knows? I might have lost you instead, and that would kill me.”

They sank down, leaning against the well, dust on his leathers and her skirts. Hands clasped, allowing the rawness of the morning to slowly recede. Work on the trebuchets continued, background noise like the rattle of carts, or the clank of booted feet on cobbles. Others came to draw from the well; resenting the intrusions, Guy finally drew her up, and they walked back towards the bailey and a vantage point from where they could watch as the trebuchets, ready at last, began firing their missiles across the walls.

As this looked to continue for the afternoon, they returned to the house. Hubert led them to a back room, where Isabella’s body had already been laid out and bound in a shroud.

“Who did this?” Guy asked. The kindness in the act put a slight tremor in his voice.

“Your friends,” Hubert replied. “Now go, Sir Guy. Set her pyre, come back in the morning. I think the trebuchets will do today’s work for us.”

The outlaws appeared, helping load Isabella onto a cart, accompanying them to an outer field to assemble the pyre and there to watch as the flames consumed the body. Sympathy was written on every face.

“Alright, brother?” Archer asked later, as they followed the forest paths back to the camp.

Guy grunted an affirmative.

Was even less inclined to talk over the evening meal; one look at his brooding face and even Much confined his chatter. But later, as Meg was brushing her hair before bed, she overheard Guy and Allan talking quietly.

“The Sheriff hung your brother, and I did nothing to stop him,” Guy said. “By most standards, you should hate me too.”

“Well, I set my own. Vaisey had us all in a noose Giz, you included,” she heard Allan reply.

_Bless him._ She was glad Guy was back in Sherwood. There was comfort to be had here: in words of understanding, in familiarity. In the creak and rustle of the trees, and the shuffling and snores of the camp’s occupants. And when she took him inside her, deep in the night, it was there too: slow, quiet and necessary.

He slept, pillowed against her chest.

                                            ----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Another army,” exclaimed Much, as they reached the edges of the forest next morning to return to Nottingham. “Who’s bringing that lot?”

“The Bishop of Durham,” guessed Guy. “They’ll have finished at Tickhill, and come straight here.”

He paused, glancing at Meg.

“I know. I’ll stay here.”

They crossed the fields and entered the town, every street now overrun with armed men. The combined might of Richard’s forces was assembling, announced by horn and trumpet and tramping feet. Troops swarmed up to the walls of the outer bailey. The noise made it hard to hear, but even as Guy strained to catch what Robin was saying, the din began to lessen.

“Look, there.”

Tuck pointed to where a white flag unfurled over the battlements. As it settled into place, out into the deserted bailey strode the Lionheart, flanked by his commanders. After a short interval, the portcullis was raised, and a group of unarmed men appeared.

“Come with me,” urged Robin, finding hand and footholds and climbing nimbly onto the nearest rooftop.

Guy followed with the outlaws.

“I don’t like this,” Robin said, training an arrow on the men emerging from the keep. He glanced up at the battlements. “The portcullis is going down. If this was a true surrender, they’d leave it up.”

The noise died away, as men closest strained to hear. Silence rippled backwards. The troops waited, curious to see if it would happen here as elsewhere. It was no small thing - as many had discovered - to have the Lionheart camped on the threshold, ready to batter down any resistance.

Some of the besieged had obviously come to the same conclusion. One man, bearded and heavyset, was their spokesman; a younger man beside him, whose eyes had flickered briefly over the assembled troops, now focussed intently on the king. This conversation would decide their future. The dozen nobles and officials with them stood equally cautious and silent, aware this was their only hope to live out the day. The corpses turning, turning on the gibbet had done their work.

“Who are they Robin?” whispered Tuck. “Do you recognise any of them?”

“Only Wenneval,” he said, keeping his aim steady on Wenneval’s companion. “But I can tell you who isn’t there – Murdac.”

“So, not a full surrender.”

“Shhh…he’s saying something,” said Much.

Richard turned to face the troops, announcing the pardon granted the men for their willingness to cede the castle. Some more regal posturing, and the group dispersed, guards surrounding William de Wenneval and his companions and ushering them away. Robin relaxed his bow. They slipped and slithered down from the roof.

“Does anyone know where Isabella was captured?” he asked thoughtfully, as his feet touched ground.

“Outside the west wall, I believe,” Tuck replied. “You don’t think….?”

“That’s exactly what I think. She may have re-opened the tunnel to escape. Which means we need to get down there right away and, if I’m right, make sure it stays open.”

“Even if they knew, this lot wouldn’t have closed it,” said Allan. “Not if they’ve been planning to surrender.”

“And hopefully the bombardment was enough to keep Murdac busy yesterday. So come on. Much and I will go to Richard…” Robin looked a question at Guy, who nodded, “these two to the archbishop, the rest of you go, get down there.”

They shouldered against the tide of the dispersing troops, found Richard conferring with Hubert and the other commanders. The guards at the door let Robin and Archer pass; they crossed their spears to block Guy’s entrance.

Hubert glanced up.

“Sire – he’s with me.”

Richard scowled.

“So I hear, though through what lapse of judgement I don’t know. Let him in.” The king turned back to his planning. ‘Right, those fools still holed up in there – Ralph Murdac and his brothers - what’s it going to take to get them out?”

“We believe there’s another way into the castle,” said Robin. “We thought it blocked, but those who fled the castle yesterday morning may have opened it again. I’ve sent men to check.”

“Good – if so, we’ll send our troops in that way, and have done with this nonsense.”

“There might be another way,” said Hubert thoughtfully. “More blood was spilled taking the outer bailey than at any of your other castles. If you send someone in to negotiate, if we can come out of this able to say all resistance crumbled at your feet, before the full array of your forces…”

“…such is my fearsome reputation…..yes, yes, I get the idea. Alright. You wish to do it?”

“I do.”

“Go ahead then, but I’ll have my men waiting in the tunnel in case anything goes wrong. I’ll not risk you being used as a hostage.”

“I’ll not go in alone.” He nodded towards Guy and Archer. “They won’t be expecting us. With luck, they’ll be wrong-footed, demoralised… if I can offer them your mercy, assure them of a fair ransom, there’s every chance they’ll listen to reason.”

“Good, then do it,” the king agreed. “Robin, find him a way in. If you can’t, we’ll tear down that entrance with our bare hands, if necessary, before the day’s out.”

                                            ------------------------------------------------------------------

The soft scrape of a broom across the wooden floor was the only sound as they paused at the opening, listening. Hubert held up a hand, and they waited. When the servant had gone they moved stealthily into the Great Hall, swords drawn.

Guy moved ahead, up the stairs; Raff and Archer flanked the archbishop. Hubert wore his robes, so that Murdac would know he had the authority to negotiate. Even so, Guy thought no man could look less like he needed protection. Was it because he knew Hubert, or would you need to be blind and five shades of stupid not to recognise in him a fighting man?

Whichever it was, Murdac made that mistake when they found him coming up from the armoury. Guy had already moved on around the next corner; he looked back to see a slender, silver-haired man held in a firm chokehold up against the wall. Raff stepped in and disarmed him. Hubert released Murdac and stepped back, allowing Archer’s blade to take his place.

“We need to have a conversation, you and I,” Hubert began, straightening his robes. “I’m King Richard’s emissary, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Most people call me Your Grace; not many try to grapple me before introductions are made. Now, where can we talk?”

Murdac led them to the meeting room; Hubert sent Raff and Archer to fetch the brothers. From there the surrender was swiftly resolved; the three recognised a way out when they saw one. With the King’s troops poised in the tunnel by the Great Hall, and the example of clemency shown to William de Wenneval and his companions, Hubert’s powers of persuasion were little tested.

Someone had opened the gates. Richard made his entrance that way; it befitted the Lionheart rather than sneaking in through a secret tunnel like some rodent. That he’d held a figurative sword there to Murdac’s throat was not to be common knowledge.

“Well. Murdac, a wise decision. Rise. All of you.”

The king scanned the room. Guy noted the high-backed chairs remaining against the walls, reminders of the Black Knights and their treachery. Would Richard make the connection? It would take little to remind him that this had been Vaisey’s domain, and of all which that had entailed. Standing behind Hubert, Guy resisted the urge to slink back out of sight. _Whatever_ _comes_.

Robin had entered too. He stood near the door with Richard’s commanders, awaiting instructions. The king seemed in no hurry. He strolled the room, hands clasped behind him. A moment to savour, perhaps; this last knot of resistance fallen, the land now truly and fully his once again.

“You know I can’t just let you walk out of here, you three,” he said to Murdac. “You’ll be imprisoned until your ransom can be raised.”

Then he swung back, turning a baleful glare on Guy.

“And you. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Richard lifted his hand, a simple gesture bringing the guards forward. Murdac and his brothers were hauled from their seats; Guy’s arms were gripped on both sides.

“Take them away and lock them up.”

Guy struggled – he hadn’t expected this – but Hubert rose: a light touch on his arm, a slight shake of his head. He glanced at Robin and got the same message. Tamping down his dread, Guy forced himself to go quietly.

“Keep Meg away,” he grated, as they led him past Robin. “Keep her out of this.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out,” Robin said quietly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” muttered Guy.

He was yanked forward, overbalanced. A shove smacked him sidelong into the wall as they started down the winding stairs. He smirked and bore it. Nothing he hadn’t done himself, when it had been his job to bully peasants and outlaws.

It wasn’t all he’d done. And if the king had his way, it was time for him to pay the price. For all of it.

_Marian_ ….

Her name: some days a whisper of guilt in his soul, other times a thing gut-deep and still filling him with horror.

_Marian. Marian_.

This day, perhaps it called for a reckoning.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

The Bishop’s troops had swamped Nottingham that morning, with great fuss and fanfare, but since then the town had fallen quiet. It stayed that way as the sun peaked, and the same eerie quiet persisted into the afternoon. Meg was bored. She itched to know what was happening, but remained on the ground leaning against the same tree trunk. Guy had been adamant; with the town full of soldiers and teetering on the brink of battle, the streets were no place for a solitary, unarmed woman.

But the longer the inactivity continued, the more families around her slowly drifted back into Nottingham. Folk had come in from the villages too, full of questions, prepared to linger here at a safe distance. Matilda had been one of them. Meg might not have had any answers – in fact, she had a few questions of her own - but the reunion had warmed her heart. Matilda was delighted to see her back.

“Come and see me as soon as you can,” she urged. “I can always use some help.”

She’d been glad of the company, but after a while Matilda had left, declaring she couldn’t waste all day sitting round waiting for men to decide what they were doing. Meg was feeling exactly the same when – finally - the outlaws appeared, loping across the fields.

Archer was with them; Guy wasn’t. She ran to meet them.

“What’s happened?”

“He’s alright,” said Allan. “He won’t have a comfy night’s sleep, but they won’t hurt him.”

“You let them take him,” she accused Robin.

“No choice, Meg.” He picked up her hands, clasped both his around them. “Listen, it wasn’t the time to object. I’ll argue for his neck; I won’t argue to keep him out of the dungeons for a night.”

“Take me to him, please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Of course you can – if Richard has the castle, you can come and go as you please.”

“Look, it’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

Archer stepped up, easing Robin aside; he took a gentle hold of her arms.

“Listen Meg,” he soothed, “you saw him yesterday, after he heard about Isabella. You know what he’s like. If you turn up he goes off his head with worry.”

“He doesn’t want me there again, does he?”

“No. That’s what Robin was reluctant to tell you.”

Meg pushed away.

“Alright then, what are we waiting for? Let’s get back to camp.”

He looked at her suspiciously, but everyone else seemed to take this at face value. They entered the forest, and splintered into twos and threes as they walked. Meg manoeuvred until she was walking near Allan.

“I want to go to back,” she said quietly. “Will you come with me?’

“Oh no.” Allan shook his head. “If I go against what Robin says I’ll get in all sorts of strife. Besides, what’s the point? You can’t do anything.”

“I just want to see him, is that so hard to understand? After all, tomorrow he might….” Meg swallowed the rest of what she’d been about to say, afraid tears would come.

“Men,” she muttered instead, stalking off.

She hadn’t given up. Lagged a little, so that at last, when she took a few steps back and then turned to slip away, she thought she’d managed to leave undetected. Until a few minutes later, when Archer fell into step beside her.

“I knew you’d try this,” he said.

“Leave, please, unless you’re planning to come with me? No, I thought not. I have to go to him, why can’t any of you see that?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense. Listen, Meg.” He halted her, a firm hand on her elbow. “You wouldn’t get past the entrance. And even if you did, the cells are full tonight. Anything you might say to him, they’d only make sport of it after you’d gone. Or while you’re there, which would be worse. He wouldn’t thank you for it.”

Meg hung her head, kicking a root in frustration. Hearing it stated so baldly, she could see he had a point.

“What can I do then? Do I just sit here in the forest, chopping vegetables, waiting until someone comes along and tells me it’s alright - or not? Oh we’re sorry Meg, there was nothing we could do....we couldn’t get to you in time, but he said goodbye…” tears were flowing now, and her nose running. “Do I just let them kill him, and live the rest of my life wondering if there was something I could have done? Answer me that!”

He’d already tugged her into an embrace, hugging her against his chest. Meg resisted at first – it should be Guy holding her head, his warmth and his scent consoling her – but comfort it was, and Archer crooned reassuring words over her until her sobs lessened, and then pulled a kerchief out of his doublet and handed it to her.

“It’s clean,” he said indignantly, as she held it up to examine it. “Oh alright, I may have polished my blade with it a couple of times, but only after I’d cleaned it.”

Meg gave a watery smile, and tried to tidy herself up.

“Come on – sit here a minute.” He led her to a log; she sat, hugging her knees. “Is that was this is about, you want to help him? I don’t think you can, neither you nor I. Robin and Hubert are his best hope now.”

“Maybe not. But if I’m not there, I won’t know, will I?” She sniffed back fresh tears. “You’re right, it would be foolish to go now. But tomorrow – when he’s brought before the king…will they take him to the Great Hall?”

“I’d say so, I imagine they’ll…..hang on, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not sure the tunnel’s a good idea Meg.”

“Will you come with me? Or at least don’t tell the others where I’ve gone? No one needs to know I’m there, none of them in the hall will know either. I’ll stay out of sight, I’ll just be able to hear what’s happening.”

Archer was silent, considering.

“Alright,” he said at last, “I’ll come with you. We’ll go at first light, before the others wake. But you’d better behave. I don’t intend to get caught spying on a king’s private council. Best not to goad him, I would say, with so much at stake.”

                                    ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The chains dragged painfully at his wrists as the guards escorted Guy to the Great Hall. _That’s why they do it_. Well, he hadn’t cared then and he didn’t now. He could tolerate any indignity they threw at him, as long as he could get through this day alive, and with the hope intact that he could return to Meg.

He’d told Robin to keep her away, and was glad of it. But the thought this might go badly, that he might not see her again, had been a knife to his heart in the night. Worse by far than the cold, and the hunger, and the discomfort. The jibes of Murdac and the others, asking was the view much better now that he’d chosen the right side, had almost been a welcome distraction. But eventually, getting no response, they’d grown tired of it and slept, as much as the fitful rest of crowded prisoners equated to sleep. Then he’d been left prey not only to his fears, but sunk in despair that perhaps the deepest truth was that for the things he’d done he didn’t deserve clemency, and had no right to wish for it.

“I know the way,” he growled now, shaking free of the guards’ grip.

But it was false bravado. Fear coiled in his gut, worse even than on the battlefield. This was different. Not the sharp, sudden surge of battle, surrounded by men who would fight and maybe die with you, but the culmination of months of dread, knowing that it was coming, and that he would have to face it alone.

No – not alone. As he entered through one of the lower doors he saw Robin and Hubert among the assembled nobles. They each acknowledged him with a nod, but their expressions gave him no real reason to hope. He waited, flanked by guards, while the king concluded other business. When it was done he looked up, and gestured Guy forward into the open space in the centre of the hall.

“Now, Guy of Gisborne,” he began. “It baffles me, I confess, why the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Earl of Huntingdon – both men I value highly – seem so keen to save your miserable hide. Hubert tells me you’ve been indispensable for over half a year, that you even surrendered your weapon in a skirmish to save his life. A courageous act, certainly. But is that enough to absolve you of treason, of conspiracy, of murder – well, the list is long, I won’t go on. I have to say I am…unconvinced.”

The king stretched one leg before him and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the makeshift throne.

“You Robin, for example. What of your brave, wonderful lady? Doesn’t she deserve something more, doesn’t she deserve justice?”

Robin stepped forward.

“I think, sire, that if she could see who he’s become, she would be arguing for exactly the same outcome I am.” Guy glanced at Robin; the outlaw met his gaze.

“Strenuously,” he added. The word fell between them with a slight, sad twist of a smile; a shared memory.

But Richard shook his head.

“I’ll never understand you,” he muttered, “and I don’t say that about many men.”

“People change, sire; I’ve changed.”

This gave Richard pause. He stepped down and approached Robin. He stopped a single pace away, and regarded him curiously.

“So, is it true? I’ve heard you don’t kill now, unless you must.”

“I killed yesterday, and the day before.”

“For me,” murmured the king. “Again.”

He placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders.

“I’ve asked a lot of you in the past, I know. Perhaps more than I should have.”

“You use what tools you must,” Robin shrugged.

“And I wear them down, many become useless, fail. But that’s not been the case with you. Yet there’s a cost, and it’s been great. So then.” He stepped back; Guy held still, waiting, as the gaze of the Lionheart fell on him. “I’m inclined to give you what you want – even if it means pardoning this murderer. But first I’d like to hear what he has to say for himself.”

Richard strode back to the throne and sat down. Guy’s skin prickled with sweat, his hands trembling in spite of himself. He gripped his chains to steady them.

“You served Vaisey through all his plots and treasons,” the king addressed him. “Why? What made you serve him?”

“I swore allegiance, when I was a youth and knew no better.”

The king’s gaze bore into him.

“And yet despite that you killed him, or thought you did.” The accusation rapped out, harsh in the silence of the hall.

“Only when a higher order released me,” Guy answered.

‘What exactly do you mean?”

“I served Prince John. It was on his direct orders.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Hubert shift uneasily. Well, what did he expect? If the king asked a direct question, what was he supposed to do? And if he was to be judged, then let it be for all of it.

“But it was no hardship. I wanted him dead,” Guy confessed.

“How fortunate for you,” the king said wryly. “So, that death was calculated. As mine was supposed to be. Tell me, how do I get past that, the fact that twice you’ve raised a weapon against your sovereign? The second time, only the life of an innocent woman – beyond that, one I’ve heard you cared deeply for….”

“And I live with that, every day,” burst out Guy, guilt suddenly stripping his will to fight. He slumped in his bonds, head drooping. “If I’m to die for it, then so be it.”

“Guy…” Robin, stepping towards him.

“Wait,” barked Richard.

It was a voice accustomed to being obeyed, and the assembly did so. The hush was absolute. Guy heard the king rise and step from the dais; booted feet walked towards him. He halted a few paces away.

“So, Guy of Gisborne. Before I pass judgement, let me ask you one last question.” Guy lifted his head. “You served Vaisey faithfully, every questionable, despicable thing that he asked you to do. Would you extend the same degree of loyalty to me?”

He straightened, held the king’s gaze.

“If I swore it, yes.”

This time Hubert groaned audibly.

Not so the king. Richard guffawed, a bark of genuine laughter. He glanced at Hubert, sharing the joke.

“I can see why you’ve taken to him,” he allowed. “He’s about as much an idea of tact as you do. Alright, enough, get his chains off….”

Dazed, Guy waited while his wrists were unshackled. It was done. He had survived. _I’m free, Meg and I are free. How…has this really happened?_ Such great fortune! A few quick, shallow breaths escaped him. He didn’t realise, at first, that what Robin was saying still concerned him.

“….but there’s also the question of providing land for Guy.”

“Now why would I do that?” Richard asked sharply. “Isn’t it enough I’ve granted him his life?”

“This is something different. I’ve an old wrong to set right,” Robin said stubbornly.

The Lionheart stood before Robin, considering, then strode back up to his throne. He slumped down into it.

“I will address this before I leave. You need your estate back – and your faithful gang must be rewarded. Lord knows,” Richard waved a careless hand, “I’ve lost enough barons and earls in the Holy Land, and men killed in these sieges forfeit their land, so I’ll be able to see all your men right, including him. But the question remains, why should I reward him? You’ve served me faithfully all these years, all he’s done is serve those plotting against me.”

“It’s a long story, sire; it goes back to when we were youths.” Robin turned to face Guy, acknowledging it was his story to tell.

“It’s no secret – my father came back from the Holy Land diseased. A leper. My mother was harried by the bailiff, and planned to marry Robin’s father. Before that could happen – a fire….” Guy paused, swallowed.

“…destroyed Gisborne manor,” Robin continued. “And killed our parents, both mine and his. Or so we thought. Guy and Isabella were left orphaned and homeless.”

“And what’s this got to do with you?”

“Because the land, awarded Guy’s father for his services in the Holy Land, reverted to Locksley."

“I see. And this was what, some twenty years ago?” he asked abruptly. “Well, there’s no question of restoring those lands now, which I don’t think is what you’re suggesting? No. They’re part of Locksley, they’re yours. As is Knighton; you wed the Lady Marian, it’s yours by right.”

Then the Lionheart gave a long, hefty sigh. He leaned back in the throne, looking long and hard at Guy.

“As for finding you an estate,” he said at length, “I have a proposal. Sir Guy – I’ve granted you a pardon. You’re free to take it and leave, with no conditions. You may continue in Hubert’s service, or make your living wherever you will. But if you want lands, you must earn them. To do that, you’ll need to swear allegiance to me, and accompany me on my next campaign.”

Guy swiped a hand across his face, struggling to keep up with his swiftly veering fortunes.

“Where would that be? For how long?” he managed.

“Probably France. Normandy’s nothing but trouble, and I’ve a brother to sort out,” huffed Richard. “And who knows how long? Maybe six weeks, maybe six months. It could even be a year.”

A cry, quickly stifled, was heard. The king snapped his fingers and the guards tracked the source of the sound. They hauled Archer and Meg out of the tunnel to stand before him.

“What’s she doing here?” snapped Guy.

“She can be very persuasive.” Archer raised his hands in mock defence.

“We must do something about that tunnel,” muttered Richard. “Anyone else there that we’re missing? I know the Lady Meg, but who’s this one? I’ve seen him with you Hubert.”

“My half-brother….Guy’s too,” said Robin.

“No doubt part of this long story.” The king rolled his eyes. “Very well – are we done here?”

Guy felt the choice he had to make close in on him. What had seemed a possibility, only moments before, now seemed to come at too great a cost. Half without realising it, he held out his hand; Meg rushed to take it. The Lionheart leaned forward in his throne.

“Service requires sacrifice, Sir Guy,” he said, almost gently.

“Why are you doing this?” cried Meg.

“Hush….” urged Guy, drawing her up against him.

“Because it’s justice,” snapped the king. “Robin gave me five years, and almost everything he held dear on top of that. And his sweetheart waited five years for him. Are you so faithless you can’t wait just six months?”

“But I’m going to have his child,” blurted Meg.

Guy turned her in his arms.

“Sweetheart, is this true?” He cradled her face in his hands.

“I think so. I asked Matilda, she believes I am.”

“Sire, surely this changes everything?” Guy heard Hubert ask, tempering the great swoop of joy he felt; he still had a decision to make.

“I don’t see why,” said the king implacably. “It’s no more nor less than I require of any of my knights, many of whom have families. I can’t let his deeds go without penalty, he must make amends. But I’m not completely heartless. Offer me this service, Sir Guy, and I’ll make sure you are released to be back in time for the birth.”

“And if he doesn’t survive the campaign?” growled Hubert.

“Then that is in the hands of our God, my lord Archbishop,” said the Lionheart, with equal steel in his voice, “not mine.”

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

It had been many months since Guy lived at Locksley. He wondered what had happened to his possessions - of the few that mattered, Meg wore one of them on her hand. The manor had remained unoccupied; perhaps Isabella had planned to claim it for herself, as Guy’s natural replacement, but events had overtaken her and prevented her from taking possession.

The Gisborne banners were gone, replaced by those of Huntingdon. Robin had made sure Guy was absent when he first returned home, but Guy heard the talk: how folk had clustered around Robin, their smiles and their hugs and their tears moving him through the village. As everyone arrived in the evening, their feet trampled the spring flowers which had been tossed in celebration, and which were now just so many bright spots in the dust of the road.

The hall, packed with food-laden tables, was loud with laughter and talk. Villagers and the outlaws mingled and ate and drank. A fire blazed in the hearth, children scuttled round, raucous toasts were made, and there was a warmth and gaiety here that the manor could never have seen in his day. The peasants cast him suspicious looks, clearly puzzled as to why Guy of Gisborne, of all people – despite his rumoured pardon - should be at this celebration.

Locksley’s true master was back; Guy knew he had no place here.

Didn’t really want to be, though it would have been boorish to stay away. The outlaws had plenty to celebrate, pardons, wealth, land, all they could possibly have hoped to gain; Much was at last the Earl of Bonchurch. But some of them had other plans.

“So you’re still leaving?” Guy asked Tuck. The monk joined him and Meg where they stood a little apart.

“I am. There’s nothing further for me to do here. The king assures us he’ll install a trustworthy sheriff, and with Robin to keep him honest folk around here should have nothing to worry about.” Tuck sipped his ale, looking about thoughtfully. “But myself, I must go where there’s a need, wherever the people are suffering. It’s what I was put on this earth to do.”

“And you?” Guy asked, when Archer joined them.

“Coming with you, of course. You need someone to watch your back. Besides, the king put the same condition on me obtaining land. He somehow has the mistaken impression I’m a bit of a rogue. That I need…correction… before I can take on the responsibilities of being a landowner.”

“Eavesdropping on a closed council probably didn’t help,” Guy observed wryly.

“Well, I’d like to think we were of some use. If it weren’t for Meg’s news, you could have been away a lot longer.”

“I’d rather not go at all.” Guy clasped Meg’s hand, where it lay on his arm.

“Of course not,” agreed Archer. “But I’m betting you two would rather live here, amongst your friends, than be stuck in Canterbury with not even me around to dandle your babe on my knee once it’s born.”

“God's teeth, you an uncle,” muttered Guy, and Meg smiled.

He was glad to see it; since the council she’d been quiet, pensive. They hadn’t had much chance to talk, so swiftly had events careened around them.

“…..but if you did, there’s always the chance,” Archer was saying, “that in a year or two, when it wouldn’t be interfering with the king’s judgment, that Hubert might be able to offer you land for your services to him.”

Guy didn’t answer. Archer gave them both an assessing look, and sighed.

“I’ve never seen folk look less like they were enjoying themselves than you two. If I were you, I’d get out of here. You look like you’ve things you need to say to each other.”

He left them to refill his goblet. Tuck, who’d been listening, placed a hand on Guy’s shoulder.

“Not an easy decision, I grant, but you’ve been given a second chance,” he said. “One that will go a long way to restoring you in the eyes of the people, and returning honour to the Gisborne name. That’s no small thing.”

Then Tuck moved away as well. Guy glanced down at Meg, and saw there were tears in her eyes.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t want me to go….”

“It’s not that – well, no, of course I don’t want you to, but I see that you must. It’s just, they’re all so happy. And I’m glad for them, truly I am. They deserve it.”

 _Sweet Meg._ A lump formed in his throat. He gathered her up and held her close, shutting his eyes against the sharpness of his grief. He rested his face against her hair. It cut him, the thought of being away while their babe grew.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Archer’s right. Let’s get out of here.”

Which really meant just going upstairs. Guy was uncomfortable with this – it felt wrong being at Locksley, a place he’d usurped for so long – but they had nowhere else to go. The camp was deserted. Besides, there was no way he’d allow Meg to sleep in the forest again. Much had already occupied Bonchurch, taking in Allan and John while they made plans of their own; Kate had, for the moment, gone home to her mother.

The feast continued late into the night. They lay entwined, listening to the music and laughter, emotions raw. Long after these sounds died away, after the last farewells were called and torches flickered past the window as folk stumbled homeward, they lay awake, caressing, murmuring, seeking a way out while knowing there was none. One by one the candles sputtered out; Guy stroked her belly in the dark.

“At least this will secure a future for our child,” he whispered.

“Better by far to have a father,” Meg said tartly, and Guy flinched, lifting his hand away.

“No, I’m sorry my love….I’m sorry.’ She gripped his hand and pressed it to her lips. “I don’t want to make this harder. I don’t know what made me say that. Well, I do actually. Matilda told me I’d probably be as tetchy as a bored goat.”

“When did you find out?” He resumed exploring her soft skin with his fingers.

“I missed my courses last month, and wondered. After that, at the king’s reception, I came over all light-headed and since then, some days go by where I seem to have no energy at all. Matilda came to the edge of the forest that last day of the siege. When I told her, she said it was pretty certain that if you and I had been…well, what she actually said was that if you plough often enough then seed’s bound to take root,” Guy could hear her endearing blush in the dark, “so, from what I described, she seemed fairly sure.”

“I hope she’s right,” he rumbled. “This is….I can’t tell you how much I want this, my heart.”

But then he pulled back, suddenly uncertain.

“But what about you? Is it…too soon?”

“No,” she said. “Of course not. And if it guarantees to bring you home sooner, the timing couldn’t be better.”

But she choked on the last words, and their unspoken fears rose and overflowed and could only be assuaged by their joining. There was something bruised and desperate in their coupling, a forgetting; there had never been a need, before, to forget.

They woke to cock-crow, and a heaviness of spirit dawn did nothing to lighten.

“You know Much has offered me a place at Bonchurch while you’re gone?” Meg said later as they dressed. “He says you won’t be going for at least a few weeks, and by then – though it might involve him going away for a while – he said he hopes there’ll be someone for me to meet, someone who can help see me through my time. He tells me we’ll be great friends.”

Guy grunted noncommittally.

“You don’t think that’s good news?”

“If things work out as planned, I’m sure it will be. Is that really where you want to stay?”

“Yes. I think so. Much has a kind heart, I’ll be safe there and have company. Besides, where else could I go? I can’t go home – if anything happened….”

“No, you can’t go home,” agreed Guy. “But when I’m back, that’s different. I’ve been thinking that then, perhaps we could approach your father. If he sees you wed, and expecting, and if I have some respectability by then… apart from me, he is the only family you have….”

“Perhaps.” Meg slid her arms about his waist; he caressed her upturned face. “But for now, you and this little one are the only family I have, and the only family I want.”

“Oh my heart – my love….”

_His deeds can’t go without penalty. He must make amends._

A king’s judgment, ringing in his head as he kissed her. And if leaving this woman, his light, his life, for half a year, was what that took, then he would do it. But if ever he needed that grace Hubert talked about it was now; he needed it to bring him home.

                                -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meg lost count of mornings she woke heavy-eyed, having wept silently in the night. Sometimes it was all she could do not to shake Guy awake, and beg him to stay. In her head, she told him over and over surely _she_ was more important than the king’s ultimatum. But she knew the many reasons for his going, and so she never did.

There was another reason for that: the king had made his expectations plain, for both of them. _Are you so faithless you can’t wait six months_? He’d left them little choice. How could she ask Guy to stay, and have this accusation lodged forever in her heart? _Faithless_. So she wept bitter, silent tears into the pillow, when she knew he wouldn’t hear.

Word came sporadically of the king’s progress: at Clipstone, meeting William the Lion of Scotland; to Southwell, to Melton; towards the end of April, he was re-crowned at Winchester. It was with this last message that Guy received the command to be ready to depart.

They left Locksley for Bonchurch, so she’d be settled before he left. If Guy had muttered about charity for the few weeks Robin hosted them – and she thought he’d offered Robin some coin - under Much’s roof he was sullen, and dangerously near ungrateful. He came back from somewhere one day with two bags of coin; he gave them to Much, telling him it should cover her expenses. But it did little to improve his temper. He wasn’t sleeping well, shifting about in the night; dark pouches appeared under his eyes.

“Is there anything special you need to eat?” Much asked her one evening. “Little John was telling us that his Alice, when she was expecting, she couldn’t get enough pears. He says you never can tell what someone in your condition might need. Well, we have a pear tree, but it’ll be months until we get anything from it. But what about strawberries? If you could wait a few weeks…..”

“There’s no need to smother her,” snarled Guy, who was leaning by the fireplace.

“You should be glad he’s looking out for me,” Meg said hotly, into the sudden silence.

Saying nothing, Guy glared at her and stalked out.

“I’m glad you’re going, if you’re like this,” Meg shouted after him, which then required Eve to console her when she realised what she’d said.

When Guy returned, she rushed to grip his out-stretched hand. From the corner of her eye, Meg saw Eve tug on Much’s arm, and nod towards the door.

“Oh, right….we’ll just go and….right, well we’ll just go….”

As the newly-weds left, Guy sat and drew her onto his lap.

“I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t.” “I’m sorry.” Their apologies tumbled over each other.

“I hate that I can’t be the one looking after you,” he said.

“I know.” She slid her hand beneath his hair, softly stroking his neck. “But you will have to apologise to Much.”

“Do I have to?” muttered Guy. She nudged his ribs. “Yes, alright then – I will.”

He buried his face against her neck; his breath warmed her skin.

“I don’t want this, Meg,” he whispered. “I don’t want to leave you.”

They had three more days. Relentless hours. Days they pretended were normal, as Guy made his preparations; nights when they hardly slept. Her façade was stretched thin, his resolve wavering. Their final night, just past midnight, Guy leaned on the sill with his head bowed, a sheen of moonlight on his hunched shoulders. Meg knew in that moment a cry of “don’t leave me” would bind him to her. But instead she rose, and took his hands, and drew him back to bed.

“Tell me Meg – what can I do?” he whispered.

And, just like that, it became a façade no longer.

“Nothing,” she said. “You need to go. I’ve seen you these past weeks. It’s eaten at you, relying on others, having no place of our own…”

“….Hubert would give us somewhere to live.”

“But that’s all. This will restore your reputation, and give you the chance to atone.” She held his hands tightly to her heart. “I’ll not keep those things from you.”

This drew a sound from him that was neither groan nor sob – perhaps it was both. In its wake they clung and kissed with clumsy, urgent caresses, any finesse lost in grief; just words of love, spilling, spilling, in fierce whispers. Comfort and pleasure and grief mingled so utterly Meg didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Exhausted, they slept. Woke again, in the deepest hours of night. This time, their pace sweet and slow, and as he moved inside her she could almost believe – just for those moments, for the space of each long, gliding stroke – that perhaps this would fuse them so deeply it would give her comfort against the heartache to come.

No such miracle occurred. Day came, and with it Archer. He took one look at Guy’s haggard face and shook his head, but he had the wit about him to keep silent.

“Keep each other safe,” she whispered, as she hugged Archer in farewell. “Please, bring him back to me.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he replied, which was far too honest a reply to be comforting.

 _I’ll not weep. I’ll not weep._ Guy’s lips, tender on hers; his arms about her, and then no longer, and she stood by Much and Eve in a daze of unhappiness, watching them ride away.

 _What have I done? Why didn’t I make him stay?_ It wasn’t too late - she turned to Much, about to demand a horse so she could ride after them, but Much was saying something which distracted her and the moment passed, and with it her panic. The rationale for his going settled back over her like a smothering cloud.

At least the dreadful waiting was over; all she could do now was deal with it. She could feel it hovering, though: a bleakness, ready to swamp her. It gathered at the edges of her mind, waiting to crush her if she let it. As she fought it, she realised Much was saying something again.

“….and I had cook make some tartlets for you. I’ve tried a few – well, more than a few – and they’re very good. They might make you feel better, and even if they don’t – well, you do have to eat, you know…”

“You’re right, I do need to eat.” she said listlessly, trying to be grateful. “I’d like that, thank you.”

And when Eve took her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, Meg allowed them to lead her back inside to begin the long, lonely wait.

 

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

They sailed near the middle of May, a hundred ships from Portsmouth to Barfleur.

A bloodless surrender at Verneuil. Then Evreux, the garrison duped and massacred by a penitent Prince John, who had already thrown himself on Richard’s mercy. To the south, long marches, a series of fortresses and messy skirmishes, one after another, and Guy didn’t much care where he was as long as he made it through another day.

The irony occurred to him one day, filling water-skins at a village well. For years he’d despised Robin for abandoning Marian, smug in the certainty _he_ would never have done such a thing. And yet, here he was; it seemed trying to do the right thing could be no more clear-cut than life as Vaisey’s shadow had been. He said as much to Archer, as they rode toward the river Loire in the midst of the king’s forces, trampling the turf where the column spread beyond the road.

“Regret’s useless, brother,” Archer replied. “We do what we have to do.”

Duty, though, made beasts of men; he could understand how, in the Holy Land, it must have sickened Robin. For his part, he would hack through as much flesh as it took to come out of this alive. But he hated it, lurching from foe to foe, one mortal thrust after another….there was enough blood on his hands. He wanted to be free of it. He wanted to be home, with Meg, watching as their new life grew. Not here.

Long days in the saddle, sticky in the heat; a month of this, fighting, marching, fighting again. Always another village to scout, another fortress to take. Dense woods, loud with the clatter of _les cigales_ , willow-draped river bends, abbeys, hills; the army pressed on through the landscape as June rolled into July. Men and mounts tired more quickly, the pace of the campaign taking its toll. The king knew it.

“Yes! By God, we’ll have him,” Richard shouted, when word finally came Philip’s army would meet his at Vendome.

They made camp outside the town, blocking the path south. Philip, a few miles north, sent word he’d attack in the morning. But when the horns roused them it wasn’t for battle; Philip had fled. The king barked orders, leaving a reserve in case of counterattack. Squires ran battle-ready chargers forward, weapons were hastily secured, and in the time it would take to scale a wall the entire force was mounted and thundering north in pursuit.

They caught and overpowered the rear-guard near Freteval. The Lionheart pressed on. They overran the baggage train, swapping tired mounts for fresh, and pursuit resumed. But Philip and his army had too great a lead; pounding along the road, Guy and Archer exchanged glances. They couldn’t sustain this pace for long. Not even a king’s determination could prevent a horse dropping from exhaustion.

Eventually, Richard called a halt. They turned back, and found that although Philip had escaped the baggage train yielded not only horses, war machines and treasures, but the royal archives, amongst them the names of those Angevin lords prepared to turn traitor. A triumph, of sorts; reason enough to celebrate.

That evening, wine and ale flowed freely, songs were sung, deeds praised, and Guy got steadily and deliberately drunk.

“Steady on,” grunted Archer, propping Guy up when he stumbled back from relieving himself in a ditch. He gave him a long look.

“What?” Guy snapped.

Archer shrugged.

“You don’t look much like you’re celebrating.”

“I’m not. Unless it’s one that will send me home, the victory’s nothing to celebrate,” he said truculently.

He slumped down against the wheel of a cart, and said nothing further. After a while, Archer left in search of better company. Guy stared morosely out over the gathering, the campfire lights blurry. Men sloshed ale and shouted boasts. His thoughts were just as hazy; he hadn’t indulged, not like this, for months. Not since those days, back from the Holy Land, when he’d consistently drunk himself into a stupor, when his only hope of relief had been to block out as much as he could as often as he could. This took him back, to places he didn’t want to go.

Near him a group was debating how long the campaign might last, now they had Philip on the run.

“Two weeks, three at most,” said a young, sandy-haired knight; Guy had noticed him shake uncontrollably before every combat.

“Don’t fool yourself, kid.” The crusader had a cross tattooed on his upper arm; his skin had seen years of desert sun. “We’ll be here till winter, guarantee it.”

“And the rest,” said another. “This’ll take years. You think Philip’s going to willingly give up any of these lands?”

Guy had heard enough. He started to get to his feet but someone passing hadn’t seen him in the shadows. The man tripped over his legs and sprawled forward on his face.

“Oi, watch it,” growled Guy, scrambling up.

And then doubled over with a punch to the gut, and a follow-up smacked his jaw. He went down, dazed; grunted as a boot connected with his chest. He gripped it and gave a great heave, upending his assailant. Guy surged to his feet, as did his opponent. A dagger flicked into view. Guy fumbled for his sword, which of course wasn’t there. He’d drunk more than was good for his reflexes, and lurched back a few steps, standing on someone’s feet.

“Get off,” snarled the crusader, who then huffed out a breath as Guy’s elbow slammed back into him.

“Right,” he said, gripping Guy’s arms. “You have him. But put that thing away, fists only.”

Two punches in, and a blur of movement put his attacker out of action. Guy kicked back and wrestled free, then Archer hauled him a few paces away.

“Gentlemen – we’re on the same side here,” he said, reaching a hand out to the man he’d knocked down. He batted it away. “You – we need those drinks here.”

The servant brought them over. Archer snatched a goblet, and raised it.

“To the Lionheart – who sends Philip running like a whipped hound.”

Other hands snatched up goblets.

“Or a squealing maiden,” guffawed the crusader.

Unnoticed amidst the laughter, Archer edged Guy around the cart and toward their tent. They’d not gone far when he swung him roughly around.

“What the hell was that about?” he grated. “Meg’s expecting me to get you home, and you’re trying to get yourself killed? And if it wasn’t you, if it was someone else, what would that do to your pardon? You’d be strung up round the next bend faster than you could blink.”

Guy gripped Archer’s forearms, swaying a little. It penetrated the fog of his brain that Archer was genuinely angry.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” he mumbled.

“Yes, I think you should.”

Archer propped him up, a shoulder under his arm, as they walked to the tent. By the open flap, Guy dropped to his knees and then crawled forward. He fell flat and rolled onto his back, approximately on the blanket. Archer crouched at the entrance. Behind him, the trees were a dark blot against the sky. Nearby someone hummed tunelessly, not quite drowning out the sound of a stream of piss.

“I’ll be in later, when the fumes won’t knock me out.” Archer stood, glancing over his shoulder at the figures moving about in the firelight. “And any mess you clean up yourself.”

“Won’t be sick,” he muttered.

Archer moved away. Guy thought he glimpsed the swish of a skirt as someone stepped out of the shadows, and maybe heard a feminine giggle, though this last was hard to tell with the noise level in the camp. His brother, at least, was out to celebrate. He hoped Archer didn’t have all their coin on him; tried to remember where they’d stowed the rest, and if it was safe, but the effort was too great. Flinging an arm across his forehead, he slept.

                                        ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The king, astride his destrier, led the charge through the gates of Angouleme.

Treachery had got them in; Richard had sent spies in there days ahead to negotiate.

“I took this fortress years ago,” he’d been heard to say, “and they won’t stop me this time.”

Whatever he offered, it worked. Under cover of a noisy approach to the main east gate, a small force secretly gained entry by a postern. They opened the western gate at sundown and the main army poured in, pressing through the streets and up the hill towards the citadel.

Barricades broke apart under the assault, and rider-less horses roved through the chaos. Up on the battlements, hampered by sun in their eyes and lethal swarms of crossbow quarrels, defenders were pinned behind the merlons. Men fighting on the ground fell back before the ferocity of the attack.

“Tell me he isn’t,” said Archer, his mount side-stepping and snorting, as the Lionheart surged forward.

“He is.”

“He doesn’t have enough support.”

Guy swivelled in the saddle.

“On! On!” he yelled, waving forward, his voice hoarse.

They spurred after the king. Trampling debris, they overtook the retreating forces, thundering into the outer bailey through the open gate. The portcullis was lowering behind them; they faced being cut off, isolated in a mass of the enemy. Fighting seethed around the king and his group of knights; Mercadier was there too, with his band of mercenaries. Blades swung and struck, blood spraying. Men grunted and heaved with effort, wielding swords and maces.

“This way!” yelled Archer, making for the guard tower.

Guy shouted for help and rushed after him, clattering up the steps. Someone coming down blocked their way; Archer, his sword-arm hampered by the curve of the stairwell, couldn’t fend easily. He dodged a thrust. Momentum carried his attacker downward, the blade scraping the wall. Bringing up the rear, Guy grabbed the guard’s head and smacked it against the stone. A shove sent him down the stairs.

They reached the chamber unchallenged; steps behind them now as others, alert to the danger, followed them up. Several men set to the pulley. The sound drew guards in from the wall-walk, but the door was narrow enough to prevent more than one entering at a time. Guy and Archer held them back. Once the portcullis was raised they exchanged glances and then, roaring, charged forward, pressing the attackers out onto the wall-walk. Others spilled out of the guard-house behind them to help, and all along that part of the battlement knots of men struggled and hacked savagely at one another.

Below, the king’s forces – freed from the missiles that would have normally have come from this quarter – streamed through the gates. Guy risked a glance down; the danger of a trap was past. He set his back to Archer’s, and grimly fought on. It was almost done when Archer slumped down. Guy dodged the next thrust, grabbed the man’s elbow and, yanking him close, drove a dagger home. Dropping him, he spun; Archer was down, not moving. The guard about to finish him off recognised in Guy the more immediate threat. He drew back, ready to fight, but stumbled over a body. Guy lunged, and it was over in a moment.

Heart thumping, he crouched down. The side of Archer’s helmet was dented, and he was out cold. He tested the helmet, and found he could remove it without difficulty. Seeing the wall-walk empty now of all but dead and dying, he eased it off and then slumped down beside Archer, leaning back against the parapet, exhausted.

“You go,” he heard, after a few minutes. “They’ll need you down there.”

Guy looked closely at him.

“You’re back then,” he said. “Head sore?”

Archer started to reply, but drifted out again.

He hauled himself to his feet and looked out over the bailey. The fighting had wound down. Seeing his ruse to trap the king fail, the Count must have seen reason and handed over the citadel. Better, Guy surmised, to have his lands survive intact than watch them slowly be destroyed - as had happened twice to Geoffroi de Rancon, at nearby Taillebourg, in as many decades.

Whatever his reasoning, the castle had fallen. The Lionheart had been right – they hadn’t stopped him.

It had taken only two and a half hours.

                                   ------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Angouleme, the rest fell: Chateauneuf-sur-Charente, Montignac, Lachaise…Archer, confined to a cart for some days, complained bitterly. By Montignac he was back in the saddle, much to Guy’s relief. He wasn’t certain how much longer his temper would have held.

The Lionheart swept through the land like a raging wind. Everywhere the sight of the massed pennants, and sun gleaming off helmets, sent shepherds and villagers fleeing. But the campaign wasn’t a force of nature. It was made up of men, who slogged through increasing heat and midges and enemy terrain. And it was in the nature of men to grow weary. The campaign ground both sides down, until rumours of a truce were on every tongue. Then rumour became fact and the Truce of Tillieres was signed, a week before the end of July.

Two and a half months away. Then the king gave him a letter to deliver to the Archbishop, which meant another delay, but as he and Archer were both released from service Guy wisely held his tongue.

Because really, nothing else mattered; he was going home.

                                     --------------------------------------------------------------------------

They ate the last few miles at a canter, each one another too many.

At last Guy glimpsed the lodge through the trees. The sun reached no lower than the rooftops, as day nudged towards evening. Somewhere meat cooked on a spit, succulent and welcoming. Stray geese strutted across the lawn, eyed warily by a maidservant carrying cloths from the line. Two village youngsters ran out of the trees, their wooden swords smacking loudly against each other. They were gone just as quickly, charging back into the woods, a stampede of crashing twigs and mock battle cries.

A shaggy hound roused itself from the threshold to bark at the geese; at Guy and Archer’s approach, it gave a few lazy sweeps of its tail. They reined in, scattering the birds. Dismounting, Guy ruffled the hound’s ears and suddenly the ordinariness, the _homeliness_ of it all, was both a far-off memory and a dream to him. _Could it really be like this, for me_? If so, then the woman who would be at the heart of it was here somewhere, waiting for him. And he couldn’t wait another minute. Dismounting, he tied the reins to a fence and almost ran into the lodge.

He threw off his jacket. Pots clattered nearby, but otherwise the place was deserted. Guy had pictured this homecoming so many times, but in none of his imaginings had it been to an empty house. He stormed out the back door, nearly knocking over a ladder. Much was on the roof, examining a corner of damaged thatch and muttering to himself about squirrels’ revenge.

“Where is she?” demanded Guy.

“Well, I must say, it’s nice to see you too…” Much said indignantly.

“Try being stuck on a ship with him,” grumbled Archer, who’d followed Guy out.

“Where’s Meg?” Guy said again, more urgently.

“She went walking with Eve, they’ve been going in the evenings when…oh, fine.”

Guy was already gone; they hadn’t passed the women on their way in, so he knew where they’d be. At the bend in the lane he paused, stunned. That one so dear to him could look so different – in the time he’d been away, her shape had rounded with their child….he choked back a moan, those lost months suddenly right there, blatant for him to see.

He would make it up to her.

She hadn’t seen him yet. The women were separated, plucking at different patches of blackberries along the hedgerow. The lane caught the last of the sun, the hazy evening light flecked with the insects they disturbed. Meg popped a blackberry into her mouth and then spat it back out, grimacing.

“Eugh….sour.”

Guy grinned. Eve, laughing at Meg, glanced up and saw him. He shook his head slightly. He wanted to savour it, that moment when she lifted her eyes and caught sight of him. He knew what he’d see, in those beautiful eyes: the joy, the welcome. It could be no greater than his own. This woman had given him everything he thought he’d never have. He must tell her so. There were so many things he must tell her.

It couldn’t wait any longer.

And so Guy walked forward, his steps quickening as he strode up the lane.

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of you who have followed the story, and for all your kudos and kind comments!
> 
> I've had a couple of requests for an epilogue so I plan to extend the story that far. Unfortunately I won't be able to do this for a few weeks, so to those reading sorry for the delay!


	26. Epilogue

“No Meg, that’s about the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Guy grumbled, straightening up, stretching out his back. “It’s not possible.”

Knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say, but the morning had sapped his patience. Someone’s carelessness had tipped over a pile of slate tiles as they were being lifted; clearing this up had put them well behind.

“Of course it is,” she argued, as he helped her from the cart. “The birth’s two months away, and it’ll only be for a few weeks. If the lodge isn’t ready I’ll move back to Bonchurch a couple of weeks before, I promise.”

Guy wondered if he’d have any time for the repairs on their home. Since being reinstated, Robin had organised the rebuilding of Locksley’s church. Work had started while Guy was away, but it was still only half complete. Add to this that he was splitting his time between there and Knighton, where Archer was supervising the rebuilding, and there seemed no end to what needed to be done.

“It won’t work,” he said. “What if something goes wrong? You need to be closer to Matilda. And you need someone to help out, you can’t be stuck there on your own.”

“It isn’t far, and I won’t be alone. We can hire a girl to come in most days, and I’m sure Eve will come and help and sit with me for the others. Please think about it,” she coaxed. “Besides, it can only help the villagers get used to us, if they see you living and working there amongst them.”

“What, in a peasant’s cottage?” scoffed Guy. “They won’t respect me for that.”

“They understand hard work and fairness.”

“You said that about me helping out here, but they still look at me as if I’ve grown two heads.”

“I’m sure that’s not why they look. The women, anyway.” She shaded her eyes from the sun, looking up at him with laughter and something else in them.

“Minx.” Guy smiled in spite of himself, drawing her close in beside him.

Despite Meg’s jest, it was clear the villagers didn’t know what to make of him. Holding tight their grudges - most justified, if he were honest with himself – and wondering what motive he might have for being there, even though here he was in his shirtsleeves, and on the warmest days not even that, sweating and toiling along with the rest of them.

He’d think of Hubert sometimes, wondering what he would have to say about it all. Realised he’d probably just stand and watch and nod gravely, as if to say it was no less than he should be doing. Guy knew that himself. This was even more true for Knighton Hall; no amount of sweat or aching muscles could erase the debt he owed there. At least some good would come of it. Robin had agreed with the king, before his departure, that along with making Archer a knight this and an associated parcel of land would be granted to him. It would still be in the family then, and Archer would at least be somewhere that he could be kept an eye on.

Eve had climbed down from the cart, and was dispensing food to the men.

“Tell her it’s madness, won’t you?” Guy said, taking the parcel of bread and cheese and the apple she handed him.

“But I don’t think it is,” Eve replied.

“I suppose you two hatched this idea together,” he muttered.

“That should give you confidence it’s a good one then, shouldn’t it?” This said with a small, mischievous smile, but then Eve leaned towards him and said, quietly and seriously: “I think it will do her good, both of you in fact. You’ve had no time alone since you’ve been back, she misses that. And for all that Much is a darling, he does fuss a bit. A little quietness and some space for the two of you can’t do any harm.”

Guy wondered if they’d outstayed their welcome, but Eve had anticipated this thought.

“You know you can stay with us, for as long as you like. I’ll miss her when she goes. Maybe even you as well,” she smiled.

Glancing down at Meg, he realised Eve was right. They were never without company. He had the urge to do something about it, there and then, and nodded towards the hill above the village.

“Too much?”

“No, I can manage,” said Meg. “We don’t need to go right up.”

They made it only a short way, to the first tree Meg could lean against, and ate there in silence. Below them the workers sat in clusters; two women moved between the groups with jars from the well, pouring water into their cups. The ribs of the church’s half-built roof rose against the sky. _Still without slate_ , Guy thought sourly. But as the breeze tossed the heads of the long grasses around them, and the bell of a grazing goat clanged nearby, the morning’s frustrations began to recede. Perhaps Meg was right; a change of scene might do them good.

He lay down, leaning on one elbow, looking across the hillside. They both saw the hawk at the same time, drifting effortlessly on a wind current, a silhouette against the noon glare. His gaze met Meg’s.

“I promised you another one, once,” he murmured.

“I remember.” She reached for his hand. “But I don’t need another. Besides, I think we’ll have enough to keep us occupied in the next….well, from now on…..”

Guy sat up and moved closer, his hand drifting to caress her belly. Grinned, when he was rewarded with a tiny kick of protest.

“Do it then,” he decided. “If you can arrange for someone to be with you while I’m here, we’ll move to the cottage. And the sooner the better.”

                                         --------------------------------------------------------------------

Their new land, and the unoccupied manor house which had fallen into disrepair, wasn’t far from Locksley. And the cottage was only a couple of miles further on. But on this still evening – utterly quiet, apart from the crickets - they could have been anywhere, or nowhere.

Meg watched ripples disturb the sunset reflected on the lake. With Guy’s gaze resting on her, and his deep chuckle when she showed him the outline of a little foot bulging against her stomach – as clear as hands moving beneath a swathe of fabric – she could almost forget her fears for a time. The birth did weigh on her mind. She knew from assisting Matilda the best she could expect; the worst didn’t bear thinking about.

“Tell me,” Guy said quietly, taking her hand.

Meg fidgeted, not wanting to worry him.

“You’re afraid?”

“A bit. Yes…” She wouldn’t lie to him. “Sometimes more; I try not to think about it too much.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“There’s nothing more you could be, or do, that would make me happier,” Meg said fiercely.

This brought Guy to one knee beside her. His lips brushed hers, softly, then less so, as her own need answered him. Finally, he drew back.

“I’m glad of it,” he said, his fingertips tracing the contours of her face, “though it’s not quite what I meant.”

“Well there isn’t anything, not really. Matilda says I’m fine. She comes every few days now to check, even though it’s a bit further.”

“Robin said today he’ll send men out next week to help with repairs.”

“So soon,” Meg sighed. “How long will it take?”

“A week, maybe two.”

“I wish……” she whispered.

“Shhhh, I know. We’ll come back later, after the babe’s born.”

“Won’t we have to tenant it?”

“Yes, but not right away.”

They settled back, Meg in the chair they’d brought down, Guy leaning against her legs. The twilight deepened; with the light almost gone, the dark shapes of bats hunting for insects flickered across the waning patina of the sky.

“Childbirth is a woman’s battlefield, isn’t it?” Meg mused quietly, toying with locks of his hair, her fingers caressing the back of his neck.

“And I’ll be the one waiting, this time,” Guy murmured. 

She remembered those words, two months later. They were in the stables when the pains began. She gripped Guy’s forearms, assessing the pain the same way she might roll a strange taste around in her mouth, trying to liken it to something she knew. But there was nothing.

Still, she felt strangely calm; knew what to do.

“It’s time,” she said. “Time to fetch Matilda.”

Eve saw them walk haltingly back to the house, and guessed. She came out to hustle Meg away, but they had to stop when another came. And Guy was there, his arm solid beneath her grasp, and there was so much comfort in his presence – _hold me, sweetheart, hold me_ \- that when it passed, it was all she could do to let him go. As Eve settled her into the birthing room, and the beat of hooves passed her window, Meg felt so bereft, and wept so hard, that Eve chided her for allowing the pains to get so advanced without telling anyone.

It was better, when Matilda came, with all her brusque, capable kindness. Perhaps, too, because she knew by then that Guy was back, and somewhere nearby. The first few hours weren’t so bad. She could hear voices downstairs; guessed Robin or Archer or both were keeping Guy company, and was thankful. But then another pain would come, and another, rolling over and over, until finally the hours blurred and she forgot about everything else.

And the worst hours, those she’d seen others endure and wondered how she’d ever have the stamina herself, she survived these too, though by then it was her third change of shift, and her body felt cleaved apart. Yet there she was, their little one…exhausted, Meg shed tears of joy when Eve placed the babe in her arms. _Ghislaine. Welcome, little Ghislaine._

She insisted Guy be allowed in. Although Matilda grumbled about the state of the chamber, soon he was there, in the candlelight, their daughter so tiny in his arms, and such tenderness in his face that Meg had to brush away more tears in case Matilda saw them and tried to send him away. But she didn’t notice. Or if she did, she had the sense to recognise it was in her charge’s best interest for him to stay. And because it was done now, and because they were all together, Meg was ready to rest.

So she lay back on the pillows and fell asleep, with Guy stroking her hair.

                                      -----------------------------------------------------------------------

_26th April 1195_

“Where is she? Where’s ‘Little Ghis?” Allan pushed past them into the room. “It’s time Molly met her.”

Guy groaned.

“If he calls her that one more time…..” he muttered.

“You won’t stop him,” Meg observed.

Guy watched Allan and Molly – his widowed companion - join the others. Eve was holding Ghislaine. Much hovered, pretending to talk to Little John, but the fascination of a prospective father – even though the event was several months away - showed in the way his eyes never left the pair.

When Allan reached for his daughter, Guy took an involuntary step. Only one; checking himself, he caught Meg’s fond smile. Since Ghislaine’s fever, she knew he would sometimes get up in the night, re-tucking the crib’s bedding, allowing a tiny hand to curl around his finger. The first few times he’d been clumsy; Ghislaine had woken properly, demanding Meg feed her again. Now she would hardly stir. Meg, too, would just welcome him drowsily back to bed, sharing her warmth.

She was talking to her father now. Guy had instigated their reunion, reasoning that Bennett no longer posed them any threat. None of her reservations showed in Meg’s manner, but Guy knew she had them. Their relationship had been uneasy long before her abduction. And Meg had told Guy her history with Rede. Guy recognised him in Nottingham one day, and only Robin’s quick reflexes had held him back; those, and an urgently muttered caution that making an enemy of the man could possibly place Meg in harm’s way again.

The fact that her father remained friendly with Rede remained a wedge between father and daughter. But Bennett’s presence here - for Guy’s birthday - was an olive branch, and given the softening of his expression whenever he held his granddaughter, it was a rift Guy imagined time would heal.

He was about to join Robin and Archer when he heard the approaching horse. Meg glanced up; they weren’t expecting anyone else. Guy went to the door, and when he saw the rider was Raff he strode forward to greet the archbishop’s servant.

“Long ride?” Guy asked, leading him inside.

“Long enough,” Raff began, but the rest of whatever he would have said was drowned in a rush of greetings as the others recognised him.

Not long after, the dust washed from his hands and face and an ale placed in his hands, he was free to speak.

“Hubert will be here the day after tomorrow,” he said, smoothing his thinning hair. “He’s been appointed papal legate and is traveling north to head a council in York. He plans to stop in here on the way. He wants to see you.” Raff nodded towards Guy and Archer. “Both of you.”

“What does he want with us?” asked Archer.

“If he wanted me to tell you that,” Raff replied tartly, “then he wouldn’t need to come here himself, would he?”

Hubert duly arrived a couple of days later, riding in with Raff alongside. Dismounting, the archbishop ripped off his gloves. He clasped Guy’s arms warmly before turning to Meg and the baby.

“My dear,” he said, holding Meg’s hand lightly and scrutinising her face, “you look happy.”

“I am. Very.”

“Good.” Hubert nodded. “Then let’s see what we can do for your man, shall we? Right, can we go in? I can’t tell you how glad I am to get away. Other than London, I haven’t left Canterbury for months.”

Guy stifled a grin as Raff rolled his eyes; holding both sets of reins, the manservant turned away to stable the horses.

“And then stuck in a carriage coming up….well, I’ve left them all mouldering in Nottingham. I told them they can do without me for a night or two. That is, if you’ve room for me?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, your Grace,” smiled Meg. “Guy’s missed your company.”

“I doubt that,” snorted Hubert. “It looks like he’s had plenty to keep him busy here.”

He should have been used to this by now, Guy thought later that afternoon, as Meg took Ghislaine away to be fed. There was no end to the distractions such a small person could create. But Hubert had seemed quite content. He even weathered the moment when a nasty odour caused Meg to swoop Ghislaine out of his lap, and had made the appropriate noises of delight and approval at other times. So it wasn’t until evening, after Archer had joined them for dinner and Meg had disappeared upstairs with Ghislaine, that Hubert revealed the reason for his visit.

“The ransom was only the beginning,” he told them. “This war needs funding, and it’s become my task. There’s going to be trouble eventually, but to forestall it as long as I can I’ve decided to remind people where their duty lies. You won’t have heard of it yet, but an oath to keep the peace will soon be required of every man over the age of fifteen.”

Hubert looked at each of them in turn.

“I’ve created an office to administer it: Guardians of the Peace, two knights in every shire. And I’d like you both to take the role on here.” Hubert sat back, rubbing his palms together. “The benefit to you, Sir Guy, should be enormous. Think of it man, if one out of every two men making this oath finds that you are representing the king in this? If that doesn’t promote your acceptance around here, then I don’t know what will.”

“Taking an interest in the peasants and good care of the land, Meg would say,” Guy replied. “But you’ve no argument from me.”

“Or me,” said Archer.

“Good. And one more thing. Can you both afford the scutage this year? I doubt your estates will be earning enough yet to cover it.”

“I’ve enough put by that we should manage,” Guy answered, glad Hubert didn’t press for details.

To pay himself out of service, and help Archer meet his cost (as Robin was also doing) was going to further deplete the chest now kept upstairs. But it was worth it. The estate should take most of the burden in future, and Archer had offered to repay what he could from Knighton’s revenues.

“Well, I’m glad. Better Richard’s mercenaries do the job than waste men like you over there,” Hubert was saying.

Then he leaned back, letting his eyes rove around the room.

“And after today, Sir Guy,” he said quietly, “I can see why you would never want to leave here again.”

                                             -------------------------------------------------------------

They watched the moon-rise track across the lake. Although it was midsummer, the fire crackling beside them, Meg shivered. She was clad only in shift and blanket, after an aborted fishing attempt. Guy drew her in closer, remembering the last time they’d been there.

A disaster. Only two months earlier, but their arrangement with Beth as occasional wet nurse - on days when Meg helped out Matilda - had been recent then, and fairly untried. It had been their first night away from Ghislaine. Meg had been fretful, he’d been tired, impatient; they hadn’t lasted the night, taking their frayed tempers back to the manor with them.

He swore it would be different this time.

“You’re cold,” he murmured. “Should we go in?”

“No. I’d like to stay here.” Her face, lit by the fire-glow, tilted up to him. “I’ll miss this place, once Beth and Thomas move in.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to come back.”

“No, that’s why we had to. It was such a waste.”

“Well, it won’t be this time.”

He found her hand beneath the blanket; began tracing circles in her palm with his thumb, as she leaned against him. They sat quietly, staring into the flames.

“You still have them,” Meg said softly, after a while. “The nightmares.”

“Yes.” Guy rested his cheek against her head. “Not often. But when I do, you’re there. And that’s all that matters.”

She turned to face him. Their lips sought each other out, nipping gently; a promise, and one that couldn’t be fulfilled soon enough. Guy folded her against him, dazed that he should want her this much, always. Soon her shift was gone, and his clothes. _My heart, don’t hold back_. She knew what he meant; there was no one about to hear them, no infant to waken. The sound of her pleasure fuelled his own. A heron clattered up from the reeds, but by then they were oblivious to anything else. Afterwards, they lay joined, sharing the tremors that still rippled through them. 

_All that matters_. Guy held her close, and the fullness in his heart was yet another gift she'd given him.

And when the fire was nothing but embers, the night air cooling their skin, he gathered Meg up in the blanket and carried her the short distance to the cottage. 

There was never any doubt, this time, that come morning they would still be there.

 

**The end**


End file.
